Flying Cows
by AbstractError
Summary: The unchanging world will not see just one war - it will see many, one more devastating than the next, until upon the barren and scorched land only the Gods shall do battle for all eternities to come.
1. Silence I

_First among the Old Gods was Silence._

 _His least whisper could end wars or topple Archons._

 _A single word could turn recrimination into glory._

 _The sacred fires of his temple burned_

 _Rare incense, and the trees of Arlathan, and lapped at the bones of slaves_

 _While his altars dripped with the blood of sacrifices that never dried._

 ** _Silence 1, Canticles of Silence._**

* * *

'I wish you would not constantly do that,' Dorian said, looking on as his wife of five years put the finishing touches on her hair and make-up.

'What precisely?' the lady Veldrin Pavus, nee Lavellan asked, meeting his glance in the mirror and smiling wryly; the man smiled wryly in his turn. She knew all too well what he was going to say, the man thought, but she was going to make him say it again.

He didn't mind. It was all part of their game.

'I wish you would not hide your ears,' Dorian said, kindly. 'Or the colour of your eyes. You are,' he followed, 'the most beautiful woman in Minrathous.'

'Fit wife to the most handsome man in Minrathous,' she returned, smiling wide – and indeed, she was the most beautiful woman in Minrathous, the magister thought, measuring his old companion with the eye of a dispassionate connoisseur of pure esthetics. Half a decade before, when he'd proposed to her, and first told her he found her beautiful, she'd taken the words in jest, until he had, in all seriousness clarified that one could find horses, dogs and cats, paintings and statues beautiful, and still not have the most minor sexual interest in them – as, he had followed, one could have pointed, unexplained erotic attraction to people who did not meet even minimal esthetic standards.

 _Beauty,_ he'd said, _is not implicitly erotic._

They had been standing in the now emptied library in Skyhold, with the husks of memories shuffling around them like so many restless despair demons. He remembered that in bitter, inner irony, he'd wished they had at least been rage demons, yet…

After Veldrin had disbanded her Inquisition, rage had stalked Skyhold's corridors too, but its reign had been brief, for stones alone could not sustain it. Only men could, and, as men had scattered to the four winds, the spirit of anger had gone with them, making place for the cool despair of the once more cold, humid walls and dark, once more purposeless corridors. During those harrowing days, as he'd watched tapestries being brought down from windowsills and statues being pulled off their perches, Dorian had wondered whether there was such a thing as a demon of sadness, or whether they were creating one now…If Veldrin herself was.

Someone – Dorian had assumed it had been Cullen, but it might as well have been Leliana – had ordered that Solas' murals be stripped or painted over; the Inquisitor had caught wind of it, and stopped the builders mid-effort. Of all the terrible sights of those weeks of demolition – the sight of the empty dais under the stained glass window, the gaping, toothless shelves where books has once been crammed, empty stables, upturned herbariums…even the deafening silence left behind in Leliana's attic empty of crows…Of all those things that filled the mind with frustration and the heart with defeat, there had been nothing that had touched him more than seeing Veldrin stand in Solas' half vandalised sanctuary, in quiet contemplation of a love that had only been by half.

She'd made him think of Felix, and the thought had hurt. For the first and last time, he'd wished he had rushed home to Tevinter, and to his seat in the Magisterium, and not delayed his departure to witness the Inquisition's dissolution. Still, he'd immediately known, it was not _that_ that he could not bear to witness…No.

The thing he could truly not endure was the sudden reminder that love could turn ugly _,_ deadly and cruel with a single brush stroke of fate; not only romantic love, Dorian had reasoned, but a father's love too…

He'd stood there, watching her grieve, seeing her _alone_ for the very first time, and, for the very first time, truly noticing her beauty.

Veldrin Levellan had high, finely chiseled cheekbones, almond shaped eyes in the colour of gold; her hair was deep black, and her skin was ivory white, her lips were thick and pink as raspberries. She was slight, as all elves, but her ears were close to her skull and had a decisive upward slant; even if only among her own, she must have stood out.

Or perhaps not, Dorian had thought. Maybe elves liked dark skin and light hair; maybe they liked blue eyes or green. Maybe they liked ears that stood out from the skull. Maybe she was, actually, quite ugly.

He knew nothing of what elves considered beautiful.

'Marry me,' he'd said; in the naked library, Veldrin had laughed, and her laughter had echoed through an attic without Leliana, without crows and without nugs.

'What is that you say, Magister Pavus?' She'd asked. 'If you can't marry a man, you'll marry an elf?'

'Gives them all the two fingers I can still give them, as Sera would have it,' Dorian had shrugged. 'Gives you a hand', he'd added, grinning. 'I notice you happen to be missing one, so…'

He'd leaned on the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his most disarming grin splayed on his features, and begun explaining himself, full thoughts forming along with words.

'You need to move out of Thaedas,' he'd said. 'You will need new allies, allies that Solas doesn't know. Unless you plan to join the Qun, your only logical choice is Tevinter – why come to Tevinter as a nameless elf?'

'I do have a name, Dorian,' the elven woman had scolded. 'I happen to like it, and the world happens to know it.'

'The world will forget it in a month's time, Veldrin. Unless you plan to gather resources by making paid appearances at fashionable parties as the ex-Inquisitor…Or,' he had followed, in a chuckle, 'as the woman who threw a hefty book at Arl Teagan's head in Exalted Council…'

'Sorry I missed,' Veldrin had answered, arching both eyebrows.

'I am sorry you missed, too,' Dorian had conceded, 'but that is beyond the point.'

He'd let himself slip to the floor, and she'd sat before him with her legs crossed.

'I will take it as a favour,' he'd spoken, keeping his eyes on the floor. 'I've inherited a seat, not earned one, and they will not let me sit peacefully in the Magisterium without a wife,' Dorian had reasoned, rolling his words with the weight of his own bitterness. 'They can do little to remove a man such as I, but much to belittle me and lessen my influence. I am not…'

'You are not like them,' Veldrin had nodded.

'Well, indeed, I am not; my fashion sense is flawless – someone should inform them that the cowls of Magister robes do have the rather awkward appearance of elven ears,' the man had said, joking without smiling. He'd closed his eyes. 'I want to do some good for Tevinter, I still hope I can,' Dorian had whispered. 'For that, my father's name aside, I need to not outright be known as…a deviant. I will, sooner or later have to bow to the pressure and take a wife. My mother has already bargained me out to three bloodlines, after this…'

'I don't want to make another woman miserable as my mother has been through all these years, Vel. My mother,' he'd whispered, 'doesn't even refer to them as people. She calls them bloodlines, and to them, I am a bloodline in turn…'

'I see. Thus, you decided to make me miserable, as I am not even human,' the elf had giggled, as thoughts swirled in her golden eyes.

He'd frowned a little, and she'd tilted her head to the side, admitting she'd perhaps been a tad unfair.

'You remember what I told you in Halamshiral,' Dorian had followed. 'You are my best friend, perhaps my only friend.'

'I am an elf, Dorian,' Veldrin had said, softly. 'An elf, and a daelish mage.'

'An elf whose name is still remembered,' he'd answered. 'An elf not even the Archon would oppose, for now – you did take his nuts off the fire with the Venatori, after all. The Magisterium actively entrusted you with Alexius' fate as well, thus some grudging recognition exists. As for my family,' Dorian had sighed, 'even if they only think of lines of succession, they know two things as fact – one is that your bloodline, for however murky, must be tremendously powerful, as only you and Corypheus…'

'Survived the Orb at the Temple of Lost Ashes, yes,' she'd agreed.

'The fact that our children can only be human is also a good point,' Dorian had said, in turn. 'Which should present no hindrance to either of us, since we shall not be labouring too much on making any.'

She'd lowered her glance. 'It is generous of you,' the woman had replied, shaking her head. 'Yet, for all your reasoning, I think it unwise.'

'You cannot remain _here,_ Vel,' Dorian had insisted, pursing his lips. ' _He_ will be watching you with a thousand eyes, and listening to you with a thousand ears.'

'I know,' Veldrin had answered. 'I know, but…'

'Unless, of course, that is what you want,' he'd said, sternly, only to immediately regret both his words and his tone, for her glance had clouded with sorrow.

'No,' Veldrin had replied, attempting to frown. 'But it feels…too soon, somehow.'

'It will never feel like long enough has passed,' Dorian had said, taking her right hand in his. 'And while you stay here…Look,' he'd gently followed, 'it is not only _him_ that will be watching you; you will be seeing him through the corner of your eyes as well – where can you hide from the ghost of what was while you remain in the south? In Val Royeaux, where you danced? In the Dales, with the lingering presence of his spirit friend? In…'

'You are being cruel,' the woman had whispered, but she'd not withdrawn her hand.

'And you are,' he'd whispered, 'beautiful.'

She was, he thought, looking at her now. Dorian lazily stood from the bed to undo Veldrin's hair and braid it again, in such a way that the pointy tips of her ears were clearly visible. This too was part of their game, and he greatly enjoyed it, because, he considered, he did not only like the look of her, but he truly liked the way they looked, together.

He'd had a portrait of them commissioned two years before, after the Imperium had repelled the Qun in such a decisive manner that many doubted the horned ones would ever return – they had both been active in the conflict, and though many had frowned upon the fact that Veldrin enjoyed the front lines too much for a ennobled woman, her efforts had consolidated her status. The tongues had not stopped wagging, of course, but the snickers had stopped and receded to whispers; the constant pressure for producing an heir had somewhat eased, too, though that was something that would never disappear and would soon become poignant again.

Indeed, Dorian thought, doing his best to reproduce the braid she had had while posing for their portrait, Veldrin had not aged a single day, while he…Well, the touch of salt in his hair and moustache rendered him even more dashing, yet also pointed to the passage of time – relatives to the fourth degree eagerly watched Veldrin's waist, and some more daring uncles had even asked whether he knew that women had some vague anatomical differences from men.

So good was their act, that none suspected the truth – he'd all but let it all slip once, when he'd been drunk enough to mention that perhaps the Pavus family should resign themselves to the fact that the peace treaty he had engineered with Orlais would be their only legacy. To his great good fortune, his company had been equally in their cups, so the words had passed unnoticed. He'd merely scolded himself, and he'd started watching who he drank with – something that was long overdue anyway.

The woman looked over her shoulder, in mock dismay, all but making him ruin the last of the knots.

'Will you never get tired of offending your mother?' Veldrin asked, twitching the tips of her ears, high, then low, than in a circle through both points. 'She is getting on in years, you know; I feel like every time she sees me, she loses another six months of life.'

'That's what I am aiming for, yes,' Dorian answered, smiling resplendently, then passing his hand over her features to change her eye colour back from dull brown to gold. 'Isn't that better?' he queried, facing her to the mirror.

Veldrin smirked.

'I look like an elf, Dorian.'

'You look like the woman who threw a hefty book at Earl Teagan's head, and will watch him kneel before her tonight, as we bring Ferelden in from the cold as well.'

'I look like an elf,' she repeated.

'You look like the only good elf left in the known world, Vel.' Dorian whispered, kissing the side of her neck, and making her giggle.

'I take it Lexi will be there tonight?' she queried. He straightened and frowned.

'Well, anyone who is anyone from Quarinus to Vol Dorma will be there – it is not every day that the Divine meets the Black Divine, and we accept peace with Ferelden, so yes, he will be attending...What makes it obvious, though?'

'Your moustache is too starched. It tickles,' She laughed. 'You always overdo it when you know he will be around.'

'Meh.' Dorian said. 'Fix it.'

'I hear and obey,' Veldrin said, standing up and forcibly sitting him before the mirror. She picked up a small comb, then, kneeling by his side, arranged his moustache in its fine shape, not noticing that it was salted with grey. 'Are you nervous?'

'Me?' Dorian laughed. 'Never. Perhaps a little,' he admitted, a second later. 'We have not seen Cassandra since the signing with Orlais, and she has announced Leliana as part of her suite, thus, above the great diplomatic tensions that the evening will doubtlessly carry…'

 _They have news and unwanted gifts. And above all I have secrets,_ he thought, but did not say out loud; he did not need to. She had already paled.

The effort of locating Solas or identifying any means of stopping him had never dulled, despite the fact that after the Inquisition had been dissolved, it had been relegated to the shadows. Without the knowledge of the impending threat to all, however, it was unlikely that Tevinter and Orlais would have admitted to the fact that they were no longer at war – Cassandra's influence in Val Royeaux had been priceless, as was the fact that Briala held Empress Celine's ear.

Ferelden had not truly paid heed to the warnings; in truth, the fact that Tevinter and Orlais had declared peace had probably been the only reason why they had accepted to sign a treaty, in turn. They'd not been overly generous, though, Dorian thought, admiringly looking at himself in the mirror and rewarding his wife's efforts with a distracted peck on the cheek. The thorny issue of war compensations was still very much on the negotiating table – the papers which would be signed and celebrated this eve were only a principle accord.

It did not much matter; not even three armies could stop a god who could petrify men without even looking their way. He strived to keep the notion from his mind.

'Am I handsome?' Dorian asked, instead, hoping to keep the pallor from her cheeks for just a while longer.

'The most handsome man in Minrathous,' Veldrin laughed. 'Lexi will be glad to see you, and he can stay the night without too many precautions, this time. Just…'

'Please don't get arrested, this time, yes, yes,' he muttered, rolling his eyes. 'You'd think the guards would know how to recognise a Magister…'

'You could not even pronounce the word _Magister_ , Dorian,' she scolded. 'In fact, I don't think you knew your own name. Get drunk at home, like decent folk…'

'I somehow doubt it will be that kind of a night,' he said, softly. 'If Leliana…'

He reached for her left hand, the left hand he'd reconstructed for her with the aid of three Mortalitasi and a ritual that was best left unmentioned in polite company. It was still dead cold, but it had started acquiring the colour of the rest of her skin, and the black veins had finally begun to recede.

'We'll make it that kind of night,' Veldrin reassuringly responded, squeezing his hand with the little strength the graft allowed – that too would change, in time. 'We have a new victory to our name, and old friends coming…and you have Lexi. Be happy, Dorian.'

Be happy.

 _Live well, for as long as you have left._

He stood from the mirror, but caressed her shoulders and helped her sit down again – he ran his thumbs over her perfect cheekbones, to remove the last piece of the disguise…and there, on the looking glass was beautiful Veldrin, of the Dalish, her face once more decorated by the markings of an ancient elven slave.

'Why did not let _him_ remove these, Vel?' he asked. 'Why…did you not have them removed yourself? You know the truth now; he did not lie to you.'

'You've asked me that before,' the elf softly replied, looking her reflection in the eyes, 'and I've told you what I told him – they are part of me, and hold a different meaning than they did in the dead world he seeks to bring back. If he had meant for the people to remember him, he could have…'

She furiously shook her head, and darted to her feet to face him.

'Why do you ask?' Veldrin bitterly inquired. 'You've heard all this before, and whatever Leliana brings…won't change my…my resolve. I am not one of Solas' ghost elves. I am Veldrin of the clan Lavellan, of the Dalish nation, I am alive, and my culture is not lessened by the fact that Fen'Harel took a three millennia long nap.'

He sensed the tears in her voice, and put his arms around her – she resisted, but only a little, before melting to the embrace and resting her forehead on his shoulder.

'You've heard all this before,' she whispered.

'I know,' Dorian answered, in an equally quiet voice. 'It was you, not I, who needed to hear it again. Are we ready to smile and wave, Lady Pavus?'

'No.' she said, clasping him tight.

'Too bad, because we need to join the banquet, meet old friends, smile and wave at old enemies, and we are more than fashionably late. You know,' Dorian Pavus said, 'I never thought I could love a woman as much as I love you. _Amata._ '

'I never thought that I could love a human as much as I love you, either. _Amatus._ '

'The world is full of surprises,' he brightly declared. 'Next thing you know, there _will_ be flying cows over Minrathous.'

* * *

It was hard to believe, Leliana thought, dreamily glancing out through the carriage window, that a city could look so dark despite the fact that the full moon was out. The jet black stone seemed to consume not only the moonlight, but the red glow of the many magical torches; the tall buildings looked as if they'd had been claws reaching for the sky and impression not lessened by the fact that many of them were crooked, and in an ill-disguised state of disrepair.

There was nothing of Orlais' arrogantly neat, but light hearted, gilded glow here; there were no swirls to please the eye, no waterways, no life-like statues - only sharp obelisks, dark as dragon's teeth caked in dry blood. None walked the streets along the path along which they had been escorted. Leliana could swear that since they'd passed the Orlesian border, they had not seen any man or woman that had not been thrice approved by the Magisterium, the utter lack of normal life rendered Minrathous, in particular, as grim as she imagined the Nevarran necropoles were. If there was any existence here that was not controlled by magic, the Magisterium wanted no one to see it.

'How could Veldrin live with herself here?' Leliana asked Divine Victoria. 'This place is dead; this place is…'

 _Maker's breath, this place is exactly what our legends told it would be._

'This place is terrible,' Leliana reiterated, looking at her shoes and finding them suitably ugly for the occasion. 'This is Tevinter.'

It was the first time she would directly encounter Veldrin since she had left Orlais; they had agreed on as little direct communication as possible, and even that had been indirect, and never delivered by the same means or messenger. That, however, had ensured that no personal touches to the communication remained, and, watching the grim world outside the carriage's window, Leliana wondered whether anyone could live in such a place and still retain any part of their true selves.

'Yes, Leliana, this is Tevinter. We are in Tevinter's capital.' Cassandra Pentaghast answered, with a touch of impatience designed to disguise her own unease. 'What amazes you so?'

 _Maker,_ Leliana thought, watching a pair of juggernauts screech the heavy gates of the Argent Spire aside to allow their carriage passage to the wide staircase bathed in crimson magic lights. What did not amaze or disgust her might have been a better question.

'Aside for us being here?' Divine Victoria sighed.

The carriage pulled to the side of the steps, and came to a flawless stop. Slaves, elven and human opened the carriage doors. Divine Victoria and Leliana stepped out, to immediately be flanked by armed and armoured guards, who shadowed them so closely one might have mistaken them for prisoners, not guests.

Both women looked up to the peak of the Argent Spire – an iron fist holding up a crown of thorns, yet their feet touched deep velvet, and they came a staircase bathed in crimson light from below and above. The steps beneath the velvet were crumbling.

Cassandra struggled with her robes, as she most often did when she hid a short sword beneath them. As she did not need to hide her own blades, Leliana nimbly helped Divine Victoria up along the staircase towards Dorian Pavus and Veldrin Lavellan, who were serving at the front of the welcome committee.

Veldrin, Leliana thought, looked _exactly_ like herself, yet nothing like Leliana remembered; it was as if she had gone through some effort to look blatantly elven, so much so that her appearance had the air of a disguise. Even from three steps below, there was no colour one could behold in her cheeks other than that applied by make-up, nor a sparkle in her eye other than that gifted by the many diamonds she wore around her throat; the next thought came, unwanted and unbidden.

 _That is how you could live with yourself in Tevinter, Inquisitor. They found your price._

'Divine Victoria,' Veldrin said, smiling a strained smile. 'Sylaise bless you with the power and endurance to weave all nations together tight enough to hold water.'

What a choice of greeting, Leliana thought, barely disguising a shudder but feeling oddly relieved at the same time. It took some form of otherworldly courage to speak such provocative words to the head of the Andrastian faith, under Minrathous' sky; Veldrin wore her old face as a disguise, maybe, but she certainly sounded like herself. The only way in which she could have proved more _militant_ might have been speaking the phrase in elven.

'That is indeed what we are here to accomplish,' Cassandra said, managing a smile of her own; to Leliana's surprise, the elf winked. The gesture was quick enough for anyone who did not know her to miss, but…The spymaster had caught it, and so had Cassandra.

Veldrin bowed briefly, and moved aside, allowing the Divine passage. The rest of those who had been selected to extend first greetings advanced, and any trace of relaxation vanished from Cassandra's face and posture.

 _A decent player of the game you will never be, my old friend,_ Leliana thought, allowing herself the brief amusement of the consideration that Cassandra looked stiff and just about ready to lift her white skirts and draw her sword on the men who were bowing to her.

'My, my,' Dorian said, oddly voicing Leliana's thoughts, 'eight years as Divine, and she is still as graceful as a reanimated suit of heavy armour. While you,' he followed, unpleasantly narrowing his eyes, 'look just about ready to not enjoy the party. Leliana,' he greeted.

'Dorian,' she returned, measuring him from head to toe, and finding he was not ageing well at all.

 _But then, who does,_ she scolded herself, trying to forget the last time she'd caught a glimpse of her own wrinkles in the mirror.

'Walk ahead of me, while their attention is still on Cassandra and Vel,' he instructed, in a quick whisper. She did so, ascending each step towards the main hall as if it had been the steep side of a mountain. 'I am sorry I could not give you tacit permission to enter Tevinter in another manner than as part of Cassandra's suite,' the man softly spoke, from behind her. 'I know you might have preferred it that way.'

Leliana nodded, keeping her eyes ahead. 'I might have,' she answered.

'Sadly, we are still a nation addicted to the illusion of control,' Dorian said; she imagined he was smirking, and lowered her chin to disguise a smile of her own.

Her agents had been travelling in and out of the Imperium for years, unseen, unheard and unnoticed, yet _she_ had to be watched.

'It's alright, Dorian,' she said. 'There is nothing more private than a public space – we can see all who can see us. Is the Magisterium happier to see me than Veldrin is?' she asked.

'The Magisterium is also very happy to deliver the guests you brought to my mansion. Vel won't be happy once she finds them there,' Dorian cuttingly replied. 'And, just in case you are wondering why Vel is not greeting you, you might expend a thought to why you did not greet her.'

The woman gritted her teeth, but managed to keep her voice sweet. 'She is your wife and well above me. Nightingales sing that if she produces you a male heir with rounded ears, you might stand for Archon – I would not dare assert a greeting.' Leliana said. 'She needs to award me the honour of being spoken to, before I speak back. At least that is how we play the grand game in Orlais.'

'I thought you might have noticed this is not Orlais, by now,' Dorian replied, hastening his step and passing her by, in sign that the conversation was over.

Cassandra had moved to the main hall, so Leliana assumed Dorian and Veldrin were supposed to do so as well; for a moment, she excused the cold tone in which he'd uttered the last words for the fact that he had dance steps to perform, yet the ill aging man seemed pressed by something else.

After quickly ascending to the top of the stairs, he touched Veldrin's shoulder and both of them paused. He whispered something in her knife shaped ear.

 _Leliana doesn't trust you,_ she imagined he'd said; she could not read his lips, but it seemed like an obvious warning to give, for she did not trust Veldrin at all.

The _new_ Veldrin could not be trusted. The new Veldrin wore diamonds extracted by the blood and sweat of her people, but still spoke of Sylaise.

The _old_ Veldrin could not be trusted. The old Veldrin dreamt of wolves.

 _The only reason we ever trusted her was the fact that she could close fade rifts and did so._

There had been no trust in the person who did not have faith in Andraste. There had only been the need for the functionality of a mark upon an arm this woman no longer had a dead man's arm as replacement, and only blood magic could have rendered it useful, thus Dorian Pavus could not be trusted either.

Forgotten by all but the unseen and the unheard, Leliana lingered in the warm glow of the open doorway, but did not step through, thinking it was as good an occasion as any to make the acquaintance of those who'd been appointed to watch her for the night. She did not have to wait long – there was a cup bearer who lingered on the steps although there was none left to serve, and, beyond the archway, a young nobleman in apprentice robes who did not join the bustle around Cassandra. It was rather disappointing, really, and it made her wonder if these were just the front, and more skilled eavesdroppers were waiting for her up ahead.

Not that she had anything to give them – the Magisterium already knew the part of the purpose of her presence, and Veldrin would find out soon enough.

Leliana graced the cup bearer by picking up one of his drinks, and lazily strode inside, in her turn. Not before extending a professional courtesy, however.

'You're being obvious,' she told the elven man; he looked at her in awe, and blushed to the tips of his ears.

'I…I apologise,' he whispered, as she passed him by. Leliana smiled.

It was a wonder that the Imperium had held on to its elves, while southern Thaedas had lost all of them, the woman considered, dispensing only minimal attention to the scene that consumed the room's interest; the Black Divine was even less at ease than Cassandra was, and almost forgot his own position in bowing to her first.

He was a short and stocky man, and he was sweating profusely, as if the many pairs of eyes upon him had genuinely carried fiery heat – his obvious and genuine state of discomfort earned him Cassandra's sympathy, at least. Leliana could tell. Whenever she forgot that she was supposed to act in a certain manner, Divine Victoria regained grace; she could not produce it by design, but she dispensed it without knowing. She shook the man's hand, and offered him a small bow; he was so flabbergasted that he bowed again, in turn, and the two Divines all but knocked each other's tall hats off.

At Cassandra's side, Veldrin and Dorian exchanged an amused glance; the Magister put his arm around his wife's waist, and pulled her close.

The gesture made Leliana forget herself and frown. If one did not know the truth, it was easy to see how their front was believable. The small gestures of affection were seamless, and did not carry the sensation that they had been rehearsed or were, in any way, contrived. He whispered something, she leaned in and whispered back – he laughed at whatever she'd said.

 _You won't be laughing for very long,_ Leliana thought, without malice, wisely taking note of the fact that Dorian had an unanticipated capacity for dissimulation – Veldrin truly did not know what awaited her, after the banquet, and if he carried on as he was, she would not even guess that something was coming.

Not trusting Veldrin did not imply Leliana actually disliked her, or wished heartache upon her. On the contrary, Leliana made it a point of mistrusting the people she did like, for they were the most dangerous ones.

 _Maker knows all of us liked Solas._

That _,_ Leliana considered, had been a great failure on her part. Veldrin had at least been smitten at first sight – love and attraction were acceptable excuses for those who did not make watching others their trade, though, the spymaster thought, Veldrin could at least not have been so… _easy._ It hardly mattered, now.

Watching out for people one liked had been Leliana's task, and she'd spectacularly failed at it. She would not fail again, and if that implied keeping things secret from friends until they became inevitable, it was a decent price. Dorian certainly had no qualms in paying it.

She winked at the cup bearer, and bid him closer to exchange her now empty glass for a full one; the man looked grateful that he was allowing him so close. Perhaps he would be punished if his masters realised how bad he was at the business of spying.

'Do you like her?' she distractedly asked, knowing that she had just rendered whatever toils awaited the man worse, regretting it, but not allowing herself to let feelings get in her way.

'Who?' the elf asked, his eyes wide.

He, too, was easy.

'The lady Pavus,' Leliana said. 'She is one of the people, is she not?'

'Is she?' the cup bearer asked back. 'I don't see her carrying drinks, my lady.'

He hastily distanced himself from her, but the damage was already done, for Leliana now knew that Veldrin was no more loved by elves here than Briala was in Orlais.

 _Must be the diamonds…all the pretty diamonds. Must be the fact that she is introducing Cassandra to the Archon, while he is, indeed, serving drinks._

Like on few occasions in her life thus far, Leliana found herself in need of rising to her toes to catch a glimpse of the scene below.

In a demonstration of who truly was the power in the land, the Archon's appearance had captured all the attention the Black Divine could only hope for if he'd entered the room performing a hand stand, and it was easy to see why.

Archon Radonis was a strikingly handsome man, who, unlike Dorian, was aging very well. Leliana knew he him to be at least sixty, but he looked not a day older than thirty-five, with not a grey hair in sight. The grace of his movements was controlled, but mastered well enough to pass for natural. Unlike Cassandra, this was a man who could play the grand game, and obviously enjoyed it – though Leliana wished the first brush would go differently, her old friend was visibly flustered by the Archon's smile and manner.

Anyone might have been, as one might have expected the leader of the Tevinter Imperium to have lyrium thorns growing out of his skull, or at least have three slaves he was draining of blood in tow. He was nothing of the sort; even from a distance, Leliana could tell his smile was warm, and he casually kept his arm around Veldrin's shoulders as he exchanged greetings with Cassandra.

His relaxed manner did stem from knowing the truth of things, Leliana told herself. He could well be gracious to the Inquisition he'd given political support to, after the events of the Winter Palace, to Veldrin, who'd headed it, and to Cassandra, who'd started it. He also had the certainty that Dorian Pavus would never have a male heir with rounded ears, and that despite his growing influence in the Magisterium, Dorian posed no threat that Radonis would be removed before his time.

Oh, the man could play the grand game – Arl Teagan, envoy of Ferelden, put knee to ground before him as etiquette demanded; Radonis looked rather embarrassed, and offered his arm to help Teagan back up to his feet.

'Ferelden kneels to none, tonight,' Radonis said, causing cheers and claps to erupt all about the room. Leliana too laughed and clapped her hands, not at the words but at the sheer beauty of the performance – this man was not planning to be remembered as the man who'd renounced both Orlais and Ferelden, she thought. This man was planning to bring both Orlais and Ferelden back to the Imperium without shedding a drop of blood.

Not a drop of human blood, in any event.

Elven blood was, and would always be, expendable.

 _Change that with your pretty diamonds, Veldrin._

'There's no need for the she-wolf to change it,' the cup-bearer whispered in Leliana's ear. 'The Dread Wolf comes for you all. Another drink, my lady?'

'Don't mind if I do,' Leliana answered, but, by the time she'd turned around, the man had vanished as if he had never been.

Perhaps the elf was not such a terrible spy, after all.


	2. Fast Friends

_Every priest and acolyte of the Choir_

 _Turned their hearts and minds as one to_

 _Their god's command. For the Word of Silence_

 _Could not be ignored, and the fire burning_

 _In the heart of the High Priest consumed them_

 _As a wildfire consumes plains._

 **Silence 1:5**

* * *

'I'll leave you two alone,' Lexi said, gathering sheets to hide his unsatisfied crotch.

'No, Lexi, don't,' Veldrin snarled. 'Anything I have to say to Dorian I can say to you; also, if you leave, I will kill him.'

'Yes, let us not kill me,' Dorian agreed, patting his lover's thigh and standing without sheets to hide his naked body. 'I'm sorry, Vel…'

'The fucking fuck you are sorry, Dorian! Morrigan? You put _Morrigan_ in our house?'

'Technically, the Magisterium and Leliana did,' Dorian said. 'Vel, you would have never agreed to this visitation, thus…'

'Thus you just put Morrigan in our house?'

'Technically, it's my mother's house,' Dorian rightfully pointed out.

'I should really leave the two of you alone,' Lexi noted.

Another man caught in such a position with a lover of the same gender might have felt fear of being reported and brought down by being outed as deviant; Altus Alexius Hadrian felt nothing of the sort. He simply felt like his rapidly wilting erection was truly embarrassing.

'No!' Dorian and Vel shouted at the same time.

'Well, let's get on with the beatings at home that none speak of, then,' Lexi muttered. 'Never mind me, I'll just be on the bed, naked, and wondering who Morrigan is. Put some pants on, Dorian.'

'Yes, Dorian, _do_ put some pants on,' Veldrin hissed.

'Oh, dear. Somehow, I sense both of you are angry at me,' Dorian sighed. 'That is less than auspicious. Just don't throw things at me, in my present defenseless state, you might bruise me…'

'Who _is_ Morrigan?' Lexi asked.

'A dragon,' Veldrin muttered.

'Better watch the porcelain, then,' Lexi shrugged. 'I knew your mansion was large, but a dragon…'

'She is not a literal dragon, Lexi,' Dorian sighed, fastening his breeches.

'I assume not.' the other man sarcastically replied, 'If she were, you might have introduced her to the Archon, and _his_ wife would be having a strop.'

'I am not having a strop,' Veldrin protested.

'Yes, you are, Amata,' Lexi kindly replied. 'Else you would realise dragons are regarded as lovely house pets, in Tevinter.'

'Not this one,' the elf sighed, sitting down and tiredly shaking her head at her husband. 'Of all things, Dorian…'

'I'm sorry, Vel.' He replied, biting his lower lip. 'I did not tell you sooner because it would have ruined your entire evening…'

'And you did need me to play nicely,' Veldrin growled.

'I'm sorry,' Dorian repeated, kneeling by her side – her anger seemed to be spent, so she merely shook her head again, looking thoroughly defeated.

'I hope Leliana made her travel in a barrel,' she huffed, making both men chuckle – sensing that the ill wind had passed, Lexi hopped out of bed and started to get dressed; he'd been slightly too fast to his feet.

'And you!' Vel said, making him cringe and freeze in mid-step. 'You don't really have to return to Quarinus in the morning, do you?'

'If I die, I don't.' Lexi replied, letting his shoulders slump. 'Otherwise, I fear _my_ wife will have a strop loud enough to keep the entire Magisterium awake for a month, then proceed to the ceremonial immolation of my prospective seat.'

'I'm sorry,' she whispered; he chuckled. When she was sad, the tips of her ears literally drooped.

'Maybe I can stay another day, if _you_ invite me in writing,' Lexi said, winking at Dorian. 'Mention the dragon – a threesome with an elf is one thing, but a threesome with a dragon…'

'Be careful what you wish for,' Dorian jokingly warned. 'This is one dragon who has a child allegedly sired by the King of Ferelden…'

Lexi whistled in appreciation. 'The threesome is sounding more and more promising.' He said; even Veldrin cracked a smile.

He gave up on any notion of dressing, and just sat on the side of the bed, questioningly glancing at his lover and his wife. 'No one else is contemplating a threesome, eh?' he ventured.

They most definitely were not.

'Are you sure you trust me enough for this?' Lexi asked, looking Dorian in the eyes; Dorian looked to Veldrin, and she nodded, briefly, yet neither of the two hurried to speak. The burden was once more on him.

'I gather, then,' Lexi thoughtfully began, 'that the stories of rampaging elven gods were more than fanciful inventions designed to get me in the sack.'

'Sadly,' Veldrin sighed.

'Well, that is indeed…less than auspicious,' he said, biting his lower lip. 'I thought it was the most creative thing anyone had made up just for my benefit. Is this creature truly a god?' Lexi asked.

Dorian helplessly shrugged, and sat on the floor at Vel's feet. 'He appears to be, yes,' the Magister said, 'but the application of the term seems somewhat loose – if he is no god, then there are no gods at all. Just extremely powerful, ascended mages.'

'That should get Radonis' fires going,' Lexi said, dryly. 'It also explains his unprecedented, generous behaviour with Orlais and Ferelden; if this elf is an ascended mage, then _we_ were always right in assuming magic is the path to godhood. We simply used the wrong spell.'

'Or you are simply of the wrong race,' Veldrin replied, smirking.

'Or that,' Lexi wisely admitted. 'Maker's breath,' he whispered, 'I heard whispers of this, but I had genuinely assumed they were smoking the wrong spindleweed…'

'It also explains why the two heads of the Chantry are finally coming together,' Vel softly said. 'If Solas created the veil, then there is no Maker, which makes Andraste an exalted lunatic and the Chant of Light a convenient lie.'

Dorian shifted uneasily 'I would not go that far, Vel,' he intervened. 'Think of what you say about the Dalish – the fact that their culture is not based on literal truth does not make it less valid. It's the same with the Chant; perhaps it was not divine inspiration, but it was inspirational, and in the end, that is all that matters.'

'Very convenient if it inspired us to slaughter them, Dorian,' Lexi scolded.

'Let the one elf in the room be progressive,' Dorian muttered. 'Stay on the correct side of the racial divide, will you?'

'I am not being progressive, I am being impartial,' the Altus frowned.

'Under the circumstances, impartial _is_ progressive,' Dorian said, frowning in his turn. 'Why do you think both Leliana and the Magisterium thought keeping things from Vel was a good idea?'

'Because they are unpleasant, elf-hating fools?' Lexi shot back, genuinely feeling irked on Vel's behalf.

'Leliana is not a fool and she is not an elf-hater,' Veldrin said.

'The unpleasantness still needs to be explained,' Lexi replied.

He liked the woman, and he had liked her from the very first moment he'd laid eyes on her; his love affair with Dorian Pavus was two years short of a decade, and he'd met her three years into it. If there had been a moment when he had truly been afraid of losing Dorian, it had been when he'd returned from Orlais with a wife; Lexi had recently married, too, but he'd thought Dorian braver than himself – they had agreed Dorian would not return from the south with the clap, but they'd not agreed anything on wives, thus Veldrin had been an unpleasant surprise.

Until, of course, he'd actually met her, considered her, then genuinely imagined a threesome. Amusing, expressive ears aside, Vel was a _person_ to him…even though she was an elf. He'd never known her as Inquisitor, and she hardly looked stern enough for the title; the thought of her facing unpleasantness truly annoyed Alexis Hadrian.

Deviants, women and elves, he thought, need to stick together.

'You should not take unpleasantness so very lightly, Vel,' he said. 'You should not take being lied to so very lightly,' he added, aiming a reproachful glance at Dorian.

'I am not,' Vel sighed. 'I am here, ruining your night, am I not?'

'I don't mind,' Lexi said. 'There will be many other nights.'

She leaned back in the chair. 'Fucker called me the she-wolf,' she rasped. Dorian looked away.

'Who told you that?' he asked.

'Leliana did,' Veldrin answered. 'She did not say – my, it is nice to see you again. The first words she spoke to me in five years were that an agent of Fen'Harel called me the she-wolf, and that she hoped, for my sake, that I was no longer the she-wolf, because all wolf pelts, male and female, look the same in the dark once separated from the flesh.'

'Then, I come home to find Morrigan,' she followed, 'and also come home to the knowledge that the one person I trust is being as honest to me as the last person I trusted. And you, Lexi, think I am having a strop.'

'A justified strop is still a strop,' Lexi said. 'So, how are we planning to save the world? By fighting a god with a dragon?'

'Worked well the last time,' Dorian shrugged. 'Sadly, Corypheus was certainly not a god, and Solas was there when we did it – we might need to get a tad more creative.'

'And,' Veldrin cuttingly asked, 'am I to be in on this plan, or will you, Morrigan and Leliana plot in the basement, while I knit socks?'

The Magister sighed. 'This was not my choice of action, Vel, and if you must know, it was not Radonis' either; it was Orlais who insisted…'

'Charming,' the elf muttered. 'I see absence has truly not made Leliana grow fond of me.'

'Wasn't Leliana,' Dorian briskly refuted, turning around to look her in the eyes. 'It was Marquise Briala.'

'Briala?' Lexi inquired, frowning. 'What does Empress Celine's sweet-meat have to do with this?'

'No good deed goes unpunished,' Dorian said, reassuringly patting Veldrin's knee. 'Apparently, since the Winter Palace, she has taken a deep dislike to…shall we say, people she perceives to have ascended as she has.'

Veldrin shook her head in dismay – Dorian shrugged. 'Radonis genuinely likes you,' he said, 'and it was sternly made very clear to Orlais that the need for secrecy from you would end once Morrigan was found and delivered to Tevinter, barrel or no barrel. Briala took this to mean you are working Radonis on your back. Or on his back. Or both, and sideways.'

'Delicious,' Lexi chuckled, finding that Vel's ears had suddenly perked. 'So not only is our Vel sleeping with a god, she is also sleeping with Radonis? I am envious of your love life, my dear!'

'If I had one,' the woman sighed. 'I don't think Briala actually believes this manure.'

'But then…' Lexi began.

'But then she doesn't need to believe it to spread it,' Veldrin said, with a quick nod. 'She is not liked by the people in Orlais, while last I looked, I was still a bit of a Divine Herald.'

'The question being which god, of course,' Dorian agreed, 'but drumming up your Tevinter connections can only harm you.'

'Are there any _people_ even left in Orlais?' Lexi asked, arching an eyebrow.

'Very few,' Dorian answered. 'Which is, of course, concerning, but also a blessing in disguise. The elven exodus was the singular proof we have that Solas is, in fact moving, other than Veldrin's word.'

'Which, as we see, does not weigh much with Leliana,' she said.

'No,' Dorian agreed, 'and the fact that Radonis likes you – us both, in fact - is a very sharp double edged sword. Old friends aside, my enemies in the Magisterium become your enemies in the Magisterium, as idiots keep mentioning my name as Archon candidate…'

'And I wake up to Morrigan,' the woman sighed.

'And you wake up to Morrigan,' Dorian said. 'The Magisterium is really rattled, Vel,' he followed, 'and sadly, in my opinion, they are not rattled by Solas.'

'Can't say I blame them,' Lexi shrugged. 'It's hardly like this wolf of yours is creating a massive hole in the sky for all to see and report on. The only thing he is, so far, is a threat to everyone's purses – Maker knows what would happen if the ladies who lunch of Minrathous have to peel their own apples.'

'Eh,' the Magister said, reproachfully eyeing his lover, 'you are really being too flippant. It's not apples, it's fields and orchards and mines; I am unsure how well your estate in Quarinus would fare without slaves, Lexi.'

'Or yours for that matter,' the Altus stung back.

'Very true,' Dorian responded, not taking offence for the natural state of things. 'The mass disappearances of elves in the south have already made us tighten our regulations.'

'With the obvious issue being, of course, how far further you can oppress the people before they rebel,' Veldrin sourly noted.

'We have plenty of experience with that,' Dorian said, dryly.

' _You_ ,' the woman replied, 'have experience of sporadic revolts, not a genuine uprising led by a figure who is regarded as a god. The last time that happened, you lost half of the Imperium and your own gods, and the world got introduced to the questionable blessing of the Chant of Light. Don't get coy.'

'Fen'Harel is hardly Andraste,' Dorian muttered.

'Indeed,' she angrily returned, 'Solas is _hardly_ Andraste, since Andraste was an utterly unremarkable human barbarian with dangerous delusions. Solas, on the other hand is, at least, a very remarkable being with extraordinary powers, a ready-made army _and_ dangerous delusions…'

'…and if you said that to Leliana or Cassandra, in the tone of voice you are using with us now, either would stab you in the throat.' Dorian scolded.

'Do I look like I care? Leliana knows my views on her precious Andraste well enough,' Veldrin said. 'I have not exactly gone out of my way to hide them.'

'He has a point, Vel,' Lexi said, softly. 'These are dangerous times to have opinions that differ from those of the many, especially if you are…'

'An elf? A mage? When is it a not dangerous time to be an elven mage?' she shot.

'A very special elven mage,' the Altus replied. 'I agree with most of what you are saying, but if you say it outside of this room, you'll find that you are not only a she-wolf and Radonis' pillow warmer, but a maleficarum. That Dorian is a maleficarum. That I…'

'Alright,' she said, resting her forehead in her hand; her ears were drooping once more, and Lexi felt sorry.

He stood and wrapped the sheets about his waist. 'Anyone for a drink?' he asked. 'Situation seems to call for it.'

'Would not mind one,' Dorian said, managing half a smile. 'Trouble is, we only have two glasses.'

'That is alright,' Veldrin laughed, 'I'll have the bottle.'

'Those are dangerous words too,' Lexi jokingly warned, as he filled his and Dorian's glasses. 'Just be careful you don't wake up in a Chantry cell, or in bed with this dragon lady.'

'Call the templars now,' Vel hissed, grabbing the wine bottle once it was in her reach, and all but making Lexi lose balance of the trey.

'Oh, Dorian,' the Altus laughed. 'I hope the dog house in which you spent the best part of your youth is still in good condition – I've an intuition you will move in there again as soon as I leave.'

Vel drank three impressive gulps before lowering the bottle.

'If I had had a choice…' Dorian softly said; unexpectedly, she caressed his shoulder and shook her head. In turn, Lexi sat on the floor joining the small huddle.

He did like the woman, he thought. Whether he liked her being so physically expansive with _his_ man was an entire issue altogether – fortunately, as if he'd sensed Lexi's thoughts, Dorian lay down on the floor, putting his head on his lover's thigh, and Vel thought nothing more of her touch. She merely narrowed her eyes and looked at the bottle, obviously trying to see how much wine was left.

'I'm angry at myself,' Vel said, taking another big gulp. 'For not seeing this coming, and also…Also,' she followed, 'I think I sadly remember what you all forgot, and that my first contribution to your planning may not be easy to stomach.'

'Which is?' Dorian asked.

'That whatever solution Leliana and Morrigan think they have, killing Solas…'

'Would hurt you deeply, Amata, and for this I apologise,' the Magister rushed to reassure.

'There is no hiding that it would,' Veldrin softly spoke, 'and I thank you for your understanding, Dorian, but that is not my concern. My concern is the fact that killing him might be a terrible mistake.'

She leaned her elbows on her knees and put the bottle down; in turn Dorian briskly sat up.

'What do you mean?' he asked.

'Well,' the woman sighed, still not looking up, 'the essence of Mythal has survived for millennia, and it was the Evanuris who killed her. Solas himself could not kill the Evanuris, he could only banish them, so if we do, physically, kill him…I do not know whether we would truly be stopping him.'

'You are right,' Dorian dryly responded. 'That is not a very relaxation-inducing thought.'

Lexi felt less than alarmed.

'Let's think this panic through, Vel,' he said. 'You are an educated person, you cannot actually think he is immortal.'

'I do not only think he is one, I _believe_ he is one,' Veldrin replied. 'He is one of my gods – an evil one by legend, but still, one of my gods. And that is why I am so unpleasantly surprised by Morrigan's involvement in all this; if anyone knows that that the elven gods, or…'

She paused to have another mouthful of wine, for courage.

'…or indeed, the first of my people, are immortal, it should be Morrigan. She has already killed Mythal's physical shape, and she knows that the physical shape is irrelevant. I even think Mythal took Flemeth's corporeal form to taunt her, and show her she cannot truly be killed.'

'Flemeth?' Lexi asked, frowning.

'Morrigan's _mother,_ ' Veldrin sourly clarified.

'Oi!' the Altus exclaimed, in sincere surprise. 'No wonder the woman is a dragon – if Dorian's mother were an immortal, he'd be the reincarnation of Dumat.'

'And if yours was, you'd be my High Priest,' Dorian smirked, drinking his full glass in one breath. 'Refill, Vel,' he said, stretching his arm out.

'What is this?' she bitterly chuckled. 'Do I look like an elf, to you?'

She nonetheless winked and refilled his glass – to Lexi's surprise, his lover finished the second one in one gulp as well, then, again, stretched his arm out.

'Refill,' Dorian ordered, looking like he had trouble keeping the last glass down.

'Slow down, Amatus,' Lexis said, furrowing his brow in concern.

'That's what I am trying to do,' the Magister sullenly said. 'Because, frankly, I am starting to get ahead of Vel in this, and I do not like where my mind is going at all. If Fen'Harel…I mean Solas,' he apologetically corrected, towards Veldrin, 'is anything like Mythal, then killing him will truly be most unwise.'

'And I am unsure Leliana and the Magisterium will accept that,' Vel sighed. 'Last refill for you,' she warned. 'I need to slow down to the point of snoring, soon.'

'Well,' Dorian muttered, 'there's this little magical chord in our bedroom, and it is tied to a little bell; if you pull it, someone nice miraculously comes upstairs and brings you wine. Get your own; I have some wolves to stave off the door, so to speak.' He ended, with a crooked grin.

Veldrin frowned. 'Such as?'

'Such as the fact that I have the very intimate conviction that Radonis and the Magisterium will only be too happy to keep a defeated Solas alive – which I would be perfectly delighted to accept, if it meant putting him in a gilded bird-cage in your chambers and making him exchange sexual favours for food. Sadly, I don't think that if they have access to an immortal mage, whose knowledge of ancient ascension magic is tremendous and who probably has the location of every world-ending artefact branded in his mind, the Magisterium will prove, eh…Much restraint.'

'That's not a very nice thought at all,' Lexi cringed, emptying his cup, in turn.


	3. The Stolen Key

_All knew the Golden Heart of dreams' kingdom_

 _Shone like a star, forever out of reach._

 _No mortal foot could tread those halls,_

 _No hand knocked upon the gate._

 _Secrets beyond measure were the keys_

 _The Choir of Silence would need, and they had few._

 **Silence 1:6**

* * *

Despite her headache, Veldrin's mood significantly improved once she descended to the veranda, to have a breakfast that was closer to the hour of lunch; normally, the lady Pavus made it a point to have the table settings removed, just to show her errant son and his wife that there were still domains where she wielded absolute power, Magister or no Magister, Inquisitor or no Inquisitor.

This morning, however, the Lady Pavus had found a different source of entertainment, and breakfast was still set at half an hour to eleven. The lady herself was still sitting – something utterly unimaginable, if the person she was sitting across the table from had not been Cassandra Penthaghast, the absolutely wrong Divine.

Veldrin could not outright tell what Dorian's mother was needling Cassandra with, and it was quite irrelevant – Cassandra looked…well, she looked rather disconcerted and caught on the completely wrong foot, as she had not even looked when she'd been facing dragons and giants. Because, of course, one could defend oneself against dragons and giants, and be abrupt to companions, yet no such possibility existed against a tiny, dried-up woman, knocking on her seventh decade, who was absolutely determined to poke holes in one's armour. Not with swords or fangs, but with knitting needles.

It was obvious that Cassandra could not get a word in edgeways, and she was on the receiving end of a thrashing such as she'd probably never received in her entire life. She was too polite to interrupt or stand away from the table – so, trapped by her own good manners, she could do naught but fidget and make vain attempts at interrupting the lady Pavus' tirade. In her corner, the lady Pavus looked flushed with delight, and was probably espousing her very considered opinions on everything on how the Divine should never be seen out of her robes, to the fact that having a woman at the head of the Chantry showed exactly why the south was so barbaric and decadent, as all knew women should not carry authority in the public domain, and should be the exclusive keepers of the bloodlines.

Not that there were any bloodlines worth preserving in the south, of course – and yes, Nevarra was south, just in case anyone doubted it. The north was merely an euphemism for civilisation.

Deciding that her old friend had suffered enough, Veldrin bowed her head to disguise a smile and opened the door to the veranda. Cassandra's face lit up with such relief as only the sight of Andraste herself might have surpassed; surprised by the change of expression on her victim's features, lady Pavus looked over her shoulder, and smirked.

'Good morning, _mother,'_ Veldrin said, brightly, then, though the elderly woman's eyes had widened in horror, she leaned over and pecked her on the cheek, causing her to become as stiff as a wooden plank.

'Well, I never!' the lady Pavus exclaimed, in outrage.

She briskly stood, and folded her napkin to gingerly deposit it aside her plate. She then spun on her heels, and departed, slamming the door behind her – the very image of injured dignity.

'Thank the Maker!' Cassandra breathed, slumping in her seat. 'My entire life was flashing before my eyes!'

'Had you started remembering any long-dead relatives you failed to pay homage to?' Veldrin chuckled, circling the table to extend her hand; Cassandra stood, and shook it vigurously.

'I had a grand-grand-grand aunt that sprang to mind, yes.' She laughed, in turn. 'Andraste's mercy, that woman must be descended from harpies.'

'Did you even manage to get a bite to eat?' Veldrin asked, inviting her old friend to regain her seat.

'No,' Cassandra answered, sitting back down, 'but I did get forced to drink something black and very bitter…'

'Ah, coffee!' Veldrin excitedly exclaimed, taking a seat next to the Divine, and reaching for the now cold pot.

'You actually like…that?' Cassandra asked, with a disgusted frown. 'It's the most terrible thing I have ever tasted.'

'Takes some getting used to,' Veldrin said, smiling, 'but then, many things do.'

'Indeed so,' Cassandra nodded. 'I am sorry I came in unannounced,' she began. 'The treaty negotiations will not start until tomorrow, and I did not want to hang about the Argent Spire feeling watched, the entire day. Aren't you eating?' she asked, taking in her friend's pale features with motherly concern. 'Every time I see you, you're thinner…'

Veldrin's stomach growled in protest, revealing the fact that the pallor was in no way due to food deprivation, and Cassandra laughed again, though she tried to give the elf a stern glance.

'You should see Dorian, if he gets up before dusk,' Veldrin innocently shrugged.

'I do not understand what fiendish constitution you two have,' the Divine sighed, 'but I shall admit that mine is no match, and with your permission…'

She gestured towards the barely touched platters.

'Have at it,' Veldrin said, feeling happy that Cassandra didn't stand on ceremony, and truly helped herself to some smoked fish. She looked over her shoulder to a waiting slave. 'You don't have to stand there anymore, Maeris, I think I've scared the lady Pavus out of having lunch downstairs today.'

'Ya sure?' the slave returned, sounding relieved.

'Pretty sure,' Veldrin nodded. 'If you could do me a favour, and have a fresh pot of coffee made for the Magister, you can take off until about dinner time.'

'Cheers,' the other elf said, in a relaxed tone. 'Dontcha want all this stuff collected, though?'

'Can find the kitchen on my own,' Veldrin chuckled, wiggling the tips of her ears. 'It's a racial!'

'Innit,' the servant chuckled; she started for the door, then paused, with her hand on the gilded, elaborate handle. 'What should we do 'bout the other lady?'

Cassandra stiffened and cast a furtive glance to the side.

'Ah,' Veldrin said, 'she'll have to come out and fetch her own food, I fear. Would be nice for her to actually exchange a greeting with her hosts.'

The servant shrugged, and departed without further words. Vel looked at Cassandra though the corner of her eye – it was reassuring to note that the Divine had blushed a little.

'If I could have told you last night, I would have,' Cassandra said, with an apologetic shrug, 'but…'

'But Leliana warned you off it,' Veldrin said, letting a small note of reproach into her voice – to her further reassurance, Cassandra decisively shook her head.

'She did,' the Divine answered, now reaching for a cut of cold beef, 'but contrary to some opinions, I don't always listen to Leliana. I simply got swarmed by a lot of people everyone insisted I _just_ have to meet and speak to, and by the time I even kissed a glass of wine without having to describe my crossing to Minrathous, and be polite about the wonders of the Imperium, you and Dorian had gone. Pretty early,' Cassandra said, arching an eyebrow. 'Never knew you or Leliana to leave a party before there was dancing on tables.'

Veldrin felt safe enough to outright frown; at least Cassandra seemed not to hate her on sight.

'I doubt I, Dorian and Leliana will have any sort of pleasant interlude any time soon,' she said, rather less dryly than she might have liked. 'Myself and her, in particular had a very brief brush in which less than polite greetings were extended…'

Cassandra smiled wryly. 'Less polite than your greeting to me?'

Veldrin laughed, and scratched the back of her head. 'I apologise,' she said. 'It was said to be heard by other ears than yours.'

'I know,' the Divine said. 'Must be good to escape the shadow of the Herald title; I know you squirmed under it. Are you truly not eating?' she asked. 'That black concoction will burn a hole in your stomach.'

'I'll nick something from the kitchen, later,' Veldrin said, decisively shaking her head. 'Makes my _mother_ irate. What is with you, though? You are eating like a wolf, if I dare say so.'

'I am famished,' Cassandra simply responded. 'In this I listened to Leliana, I didn't touch anything last night, at the banquet or in my quarters.'

'Are you sure she did not warn you off _our_ food as well?' Veldrin sourly asked.

The Divine reproachfully glanced at the former Inquisitor. 'No, she did not. Don't take her caution too much to heart, Inquisitor – she is truly rattled by Minrathous, and, well, her trust in overall humanity has taken blow after blow. It is also, admittedly, that…'

She bit her lower lip, and hesitated, before following.

'It is very strange how you managed to survive here, Veldrin. Your mother in law looks at you like you were some sort of poisonous weed; half the room, last eve, whispered of how indecent your hair was, as if you had been showing off your bare bosom. Still, Archon Radonis had his arm around your shoulders when you introduced me, and Leliana's sources say that you might well become the first elven Magister, if…'

'If I and Dorian have a child, yes,' Veldrin sighed, rolling her eyes.

'Fat chance o'that,' Maeris, the servant, said, with a wink; she took the pot of cold coffee out of her mistress' hopeful reach. 'Nay, drink it proper,' she scolded, putting the hot one down. 'Off with me?' she asked.

'Off with you,' Vel nodded, smiling. 'Tell them to wake the Magister if he really sleeps past noontime; if he wakes at five, hair of the dog will gather a wholly different meaning…'

The other elf chuckled knowingly, and nodded. 'Eat something, _lethallan,_ you will catch your death of fasting 'pon sunrise, ya an' the young master. Shem, and children,' Maeris said, shaking her head in Cassandra's direction, as if Cassandra had been the only person who had the capacity to grasp her meaning.

She left, and Cassandra smiled.

'I wish Leliana had seen this,' she said.

'What?' Veldrin frowned. 'Maeris calling me _lethellan_? Or her caring whether Dorian, her owner, eats or not?'

'You,' Cassandra shrugged, getting more smoked fish. 'You are very much still you. And, I gather,' she followed, with less enthusiasm, 'Dorian is still Dorian. There will…there will never be an heir, will there?' she asked, biting her lower lip.

'No, there will not be one,' Veldrin said, drinking her hot coffee and disliking it at least as much as Solas despised tea.

Cassandra took a sip of coffee and smirked horribly at the taste as well.

'I would say something, Inquisitor,' she said.

'This is a democracy,' Vel sighed, knowing what Cassandra would say before she said it.

'You and Dorian have a great, historical chance – he could be Archon, you could be Magister; you could change worlds if only you both let go of that bit of…'

'That bit of everything that makes me into _me_ ,' Dorian said, not merely opening the doors to the veranda, but parting them into seas of different waters. 'Or that bit of everything that makes Vel into Vel – a little personal sacrifice that does not matter to anyone. Oh, why can we not get over ourselves and get on with getting it on? I could just stop preferring men, and Vel could just stop fooling around like she's Dalish or something…Which she obviously is not, since she can read and use a salad fork, as everyone from Halamshiral to the Argent Spire can attest; she's already human, why would having human children be _such_ a jump? Those tiny, little sacrifices we could make to change Tevinter…'

'…Together.' Cassandra said, softly.

'Coffee,' the man groaned, crashing in his seat, across from his wife, and pushing the plates forward to rest his forehead on the table. He grasped the cup Veldrin gave him in blind. 'Good morning, _Mother Giselle_ ,' he sighed. 'I missed you _so_ much.'

'Your glib tongue still does you no credit, Dorian,' Cassandra replied, with a little disapproving frown.

'And my mother's capacity for seeing me as a perpetual five year-old seems infections even after limited exposure,' he muttered, taking a sip of his coffee and sighing with pleasure. 'I take it you have met my mother, yes?'

'Indeed,' Cassandra answered. 'It was a mercifully short acquaintance, though probably informative – I might bump hats with your Divine, but I assume your mother's feelings in my regard are what most of the Imperium thinks, yet will not voice.'

Dorian chuckled. 'I am glad for your clarity, and you are very correct, but it is not only your title that inspires such loathing. It is you, personally, for having dared marry us – if you had not, she might have defeated me by exhaustion.'

'To be honest,' the Divine softly said, 'when you two spoke of marriage, I understood the context very well, and I appreciated your courage. The fact that I knew you would break your vows as you made them did not make me very comfortable, yet… I had still hoped that if you understood one political gesture for what it was, you would go through and complete it, as many other politically significant couples do.'

'Oh,' Veldrin said, with a giggle, 'so you are dispensing the same advice to Empress Celene, I gather? I mean, Briala is nice on the side, but, you know, a clean line of inheritance for the throne of Orlais is of far greater importance to the continent than the line of House Pavus, right?'

'I would,' Cassandra earnestly shrugged, 'but she is too old for child bearing.'

'While we still have three decades at least to be subjected to the dryly grinding millstones of the small-minded, eh?' Dorian muttered.

'Thirty years, Dorian?' Vel laughed. 'Aren't you flattering yourself just a tad?'

'Not at all,' the man answered, looking more lively as he finished his first cup and reached for a second. 'My grandfather had the last of my uncles when he was five and seventy.'

'Is this the uncle with the wonky eye?' the elf queried, arching an eyebrow.

'He also drools in his soup, but he is a Pavus,' Dorian replied; Cassandra's glance softened.

'I did not mean to blunder into your lives, iron boots and tall hat and all,' she sincerely said. 'It is just that I have seen people who actively hated each other who managed to visit each other's bed once a month. You two are as thick as thieves, and yet…'

Veldrin exchanged a glance with her husband – it was odd, she thought. They had been weathering this speech for years, and most of those who insisted upon having their say on the matter did not wish the couple ill. She'd seen that years ago, in Redcliffe, even before Dorian himself had, and she had understood it more and more after she'd joined him in Minrathous.

For however misguided his actions, Halward Pavus had loved his son and had simply meant to make his path…not even in the Magisterium, but in life – easier. If anyone in the House was truly, deeply ashamed of Dorian's proclivities, it was his mother, who could truly not see past them…Past what she probably perceived as _her_ mistake, either in upbringing or, even more terrifyingly, as a fault in her blood.

It was this simple notion that kept Veldrin from hating the old woman, despite the fact that in duels of words, she gave as good as she got. The Gods only knew what it must have felt like to be bred for one purpose, one task only, and then to so utterly fail at it, after an entire existence of miserable sacrifice.

'I did not mean to…' Cassandra offered, awkwardly but warmly patting Veldrin's hand.

'You didn't,' Dorian said. 'It's just a song we hear constantly in a choir of voices – at least you're singing it with some knowledge of who we actually are. But, Cassandra,' he followed, looking very serious, as he not often did, 'whether one has intercourse, with whom, and with what results is not a legitimate political promotion criterion in my eyes. Thaedas may feel entitled to sneak a peek in the beds of their kings and queens, but the Imperium is, at least on a declarative level, a parliamentary democracy.'

'One in which you are both handicapping yourselves,' the Divine said, softly; she sounded unsure of herself, which was probably why, Veldrin considered, Dorian did not grow as vitriolic at the discourse as he normally did. Or maybe it was not that – maybe he was happy enough with all that he had to stop fighting battles he would obviously never win.

He was still not overly inclined to mince words. 'Very well, your worship,' he said, smiling brightly. 'We'll have a child when the Southern Chantry starts introducing virginity checks for new sisters. Reasonable timeline, no?'

Cassandra rolled her eyes. 'The reason why people mistake you for a five-year old is because you sometimes _do_ go out of your way to behave like one, Magister. As you wish, then; let it not be said I did not at least attempt it.' she said. 'I am awful at political machinations,' she sighed.

'Just a bit transparent,' Veldrin said, smiling. 'You still say what you mean to say, how you mean to say it.'

'That's not necessarily a good thing, Inquisitor,' the Divine answered. 'I have to admit that I am even mentioning this because I am not liking the road ahead; Celene truly does not have an heir, and you, in your great and somewhat ill-advised mercy, let Gaspard live. He has heirs, and they have supporters... Ferelden is equally unstable in its line of succession – Queen Anora does have three children, but all the world whispers they are not the King's. Once either of them passes, there will be turmoil, and I am not shy in saying that I would rather have at least a chance of an Archon who'd not pounce on the opportunity.'

'In other words,' she ended, 'I am not thinking about your bedchamber, I am thinking about Thaedas. I wish you had not crushed the Qun _that_ decisively,' Cassandra sighed, being altogether too honest, and making Veldrin laugh.

'It's not like we invaded Par Vollen,' the elf said. 'They'll be back in thirty years, worry not.'

'Besides,' Dorian picked up, 'I don't know if you managed to have a good look at the state of this, our _glorious_ capital, but I promise you that if Iron Bull were to magically appear in Three Imperators Square and jump up and down twice, the entire city would physically crumble. We're hardly in a position to wage war on anyone. Especially on friends and allies,' he ended, with a thin smile.

The Divine shook her head. 'I am unsure Radonis sees it _quite_ that way, Dorian. In fact, I am unsure of anything that Radonis thinks…'

'I truly do love you, Cassandra,' Dorian laughed, with no ill will. 'I am very sure many share your predicament in what regards Radonis' thought processes. The one thing we will tell you, however,' he followed, reaching across the table to take Veldrin's hand, 'is that he would not think much of us telling you what we think he thinks.'

'We can assure you that it is not war,' Veldrin added, looking Cassandra in the eyes. 'At least not for now, and at least now how you would conventionally define it.'

'I see,' the former Seeker grunted, crossing her arms over her chest. 'I should really leave this game stuff to Leliana,' she huffed, 'though let me tell you, the amount of _we_ I am hearing would sting her twice more than it does me.'

Veldrin shrugged. 'Shared adversity is the mother and father of all common pronouns, Cassandra. We've not had an easy time here, and servants checking our sheets for stains or nobles being outraged at my ears are but the surface of it all. You'd not have had your Inquisition…'

'Last I looked, it was our Inquisition,' the Divine responded, briskly.

'But it is gone,' the elf shrugged, not knowing that the tips of her ears were lowered in sadness. 'If I were you, my old friend, I would not hold much hope for the peace treaties we're labouring on now to last, because they will not. It doesn't even have to be the Imperium – do you genuinely think that if an offshoot of Gaspard ascends to Celene's throne after she is gone, and Ferelden has a long war of succession, the Orlesians won't jump?'

Cassandra smiled, sadly. 'You've grown cynical, Vel.'

The elf looked aside and took a deep breath. 'Merely too old, too fast. The Inquisition is gone…'

'You dissolved it,' Cassandra answered, reproachfully.

'Yes, well, I missed Arl Teagan's head once; I am unsure it might have been wise for me to have a chance at a re-take,' Veldrin said, 'because I promise you, I do not miss twice. I was tired and hurt, and I truly wanted nothing more to do with the Chantry – especially not with Vivienne elected Grand Enchanter.'

'By the vast majority of the small minority of mages she even recognises as peers,' Dorian chuckled, lifting his coffee cup in a mock toast.

The Divine rolled her eyes. 'Yes,' she muttered, 'If Vivienne could revert to the way in which magic was handled after the very first Blight, she would, and that is giving me no end of headaches. She will provoke another Kirkwall, if she keeps going as she is.'

'So, there,' the elf followed, picking up a small desert fork and beginning to draw arcane patterns with it on the table cloth, 'my choice was a bit obvious. Thaedas only adored me as long as I _was_ the Herald of Andraste. I am no such thing, I never was such a thing, and I did not wish to wear that mask for a single moment longer than I had to. Once I shed it, though, I returned to being a non-circle elven mage. Thaedas hates both parts of who I am; the Imperium only hates one, and at least they have the decency to hate me to my face.'

Cassandra shook her head. 'I never let myself think you felt that way, nor did we ever think ill of you, Vel – neither I, nor Cullen, nor Josie. Nor Leliana, in her heart of hearts.'

Veldrin narrowed her eyes. 'We'll see,' she said, rather more coldly than she'd intended, decisively setting the fork down, in perfect alignment to the rest of the rest of the cutlery, as if squaring the entire conversation to the side. Cassandra shook her head in confused sorrow.

'What did happen with Leliana, last night?' the Divine asked.

'Morrigan happened,' Dorian responded, dryly. 'Not to mention some uncharacteristically off the cuff remarks about wolf pelts of whatever gender…Speaking of which,' he cheerfully switched discourse, 'where _is_ Morrigan? I am pretty sure she didn't join our enchanting debauchery last night, but then, I blacked out before dawn, so…' he added, just for the pleasure of watching Cassandra pale.

'Maybe she decided she prefers the barrel she travelled in to our company,' Vel said, cranking her nose. 'I certainly haven't seen her.'

To the elf's surprise, Cassandra lowered her glance. 'I am unsure of whether this is good or bad news to you, Veldrin,' she said, slowly, 'but Morrigan is under _very_ strict orders not to speak with either of you if Leliana is not present.'

'Say again?' Dorian asked, briskly leaning forward; if his ears had been pointed, Vel thought, they might have visibly perked. As was, his moustache bristled, and Cassandra shifted uneasily.

No wonder, Veldrin thought, biting her lower lip. None of _them_ had seen him serious or angry, and he was on the verge of becoming _very_ furious now.

'That is perhaps best left for Leliana to explain,' Cassandra replied, to her credit, not sounding intimidated.

'No, your worship,' the man said, his polite tone radiating cold. ' _You_ explain it, because I am beginning to feel played. I have kept my part of my agreement with yourself and Leliana, but this is as far as it goes.'

'You're off the mark, Dorian,' Cassandra sternly said, cutting him off, and visibly growing angry in her turn. 'It's not _you_ that Leliana wants to watch. It's Morrigan.'

'And why, pray tell?' the Magister insisted.

'Because,' the Divine hissed, 'while the travelling in a barrel might be an exaggeration, I assure you Morrigan did not come here of her own accord, and the persuasions she was subjected to were rather less than gentle.'

* * *

Ah, and...minor greetings and salutations, Abstract & IVIaedhros here. We're a bit far from our regular playing field here, but those who might already know us from our normal haunts probably suspect that things are about to get pretty dark very soon. For those of you just getting to know us, well...Things are going to get pretty dark, very soon :)

Thank you for reading and commenting :)


	4. Of a Deviant and His Pet Elf

_And so the First Acolyte spoke to the High Priest_

 _And said: 'We are the masters of secrets,_

 _But our god demands more. Let us to the Builders_

 _Whisper, and they who construct monuments to the glory_

 _of the gods shall build us a road to the Golden City,_

 _Where your promise shall be fulfilled._

 **Silence 1:7**

* * *

Magister Cassius sneezed, then, taking advantage of the fact that Archon Radonis was thoughtfully gazing out the window, cast a hate-filled glance to the lavish armchair where Radonis' two favourite cats slept, in a bundle of evil, nostril-invading, skin irritating and robe destroying fluff.

One of the creatures sensed him. It opened one mocking, emerald green eye and yawned, threatening to stand up – under normal circumstances, Cassius did not consider himself Andrastian, but any visit to Radonis' private study made him fervently pray that the blasted _things_ would not get overly friendly. As if further proof of the fact that there was no Maker were needed, the cats were exceptionally fond of him and rarely missed an opportunity of manifesting their overflowing affection.

The two, to whom Cassius hatefully thought of as Dumat and the Bride of Dumat were of a very rare and precious Antivan breed – one that actually liked swimming. Radonis, who'd gone to great lengths to acquire them, took pleasure in explaining that they had a triple layered coat of fur…Which, to the Magister's terrified mind, only translated as _even more fur._ And they were not even pretty, Cassius considered. They were grey as rats, had sharp faces, and looked permanently famished, despite the fact that the Archon reputedly spent a fortune on feeding them.

Any thought of escaping their company was vain hope, however, even when Radonis was in a good mood. Today, he was manifestly not; Magister Cassius attempted to hold in another sneeze. He failed.

'Do get that sorted,' Radonis said, turning around with a bright smile. 'It is irritating in the extreme.'

'Yes, your grace,' Cassius sighed. 'I have tried the herbal tea your grace recommended, sadly, to no avail…'

'There's always blood magic,' Radonis put in. 'If you can even perform it, of course,' he added.

Anyone who'd not known him for a lifetime might have taken the words for light jest; to Cassius, who'd been Radonis' apprentice since he was sixteen, the phrase sounded exactly like what it had been, however.

A sting.

Perhaps even a threat.

'I have apologised to your grace already,' the Magister said, not bothering to keep his own irritation in check because he knew all too well that Radonis would have sensed it anyway. 'We have attempted to have ears in the House Pavus multiple times, and every time, our attempts have failed, due in no small measure to the unprecedented leeway _you_ grant Magister Pavus and Inqui…Magistra…the lady Pavus.' He corrected, at the last moment, congratulating himself for the fact he'd not outright blurted the words that were on his mind.

 _The deviant and his pet elf._

Radonis sat, but did not invite the other man to sit, in turn.

'I dealt you an ace, I deal him an ace,' the Archon said, calmly. 'The rest of the cards in your respective hands are your own, and you decide how to play them.'

'Indeed, your grace, but you have dealt him an elf that their house slaves regard as the second coming of Andraste,' Cassius protested. 'How do you expect me to infiltrate…'

'I don't expect any specific course of action, Cassius,' Radonis sighed, sounding deeply aggrieved. 'I expect information. Should you require pointers as to how, exactly, that is to be accomplished, I believe Sister Nightingale is visiting us – perhaps she could aid you? I am hopeless at these details, as they do not present any particular importance to me.'

The man was being nothing but honest, the Magister thought, looking away, and knowing his patron enjoyed the frustration he was causing as much as his cats enjoyed making people sneeze their lungs out.

In great irony, it was precisely Radonis' honesty that made him so unpleasantly unreadable. He was neither a reformer, nor a traditionalist, and had balanced the two currents in the Magisterium by playing them against each other for his entire tenure, not allowing either enough ballast to actually upset the ship. Where others might have mistakenly thought that the favour he showed Pavus was part of the same game, one that was intended to keep Archon candidates that had previously felt secure of their footing on their toes, Cassius understood it was anything but. If the deviant and his elf played a better hand, they'd win – the dark horse of unthinkable reforms was truly in the race, and those who dismissed the notion as folly were doing so at their own peril.

'We shall not spare efforts,' Cassius evenly said. 'In the meanwhile,' he followed, trying to bring the conversation to more auspicious territories, 'if I may direct your grace's attention to the notes regarding the negotiations with Ferelden…'

'I do not know why you bothered,' Radonis said. 'I shall give them everything they request, but for sizeable reparations. I shall give them symbolic ones, though – do we still have embers from Andraste's pyre or are we all out of holy relics?'

'All out,' the Magister muttered.

'Make some more, then. Wrap them nicely. Solid gold urn should do.' The Archon distractedly ordered. 'Don't present them to the Divine, however, she seems like a woman with her wits about her – give them to the gentleman from Ferelden, he will faint in awe…'

'Your grace,' Cassius said, gritting his teeth, 'I advise against such concessions, even if they are only symbolic. The Magisterium…'

'…parts of the Magisterium,' Radonis helpfully corrected, sapping his former apprentice's momentum. 'Go on,' he said, knitting his fingers on the table before him. 'What do parts of the Magisterium want?'

'We,' Cassius said, renouncing all notions of sounding impartial, and speaking with the voices of all he well knew would sustain him in case of need, or protect him in case of danger, 'do not approve of the way in which you are surrendering our legacy. Peace with Orlais, now, peace with Ferelden...Acquiescence of the Sunburst Throne…'

'You, and _parts_ of the Magisterium do realise that the fact that we have not previously acknowledged the Sunburst Throne did not erase it from existence? It is akin to you and my cats – you refuse to look their way, but they still make you retch. If they were invisible, you would still retch. Why not admit they are here?'

'The doctrine of the Southern Chantry is incompatible with ours,' the Magister bravely shot.

'There is only one Maker,' Radonis agreeably contradicted, 'and Andraste, his bride, said magic exists to serve man. As long as we do not descend into the specific semantics of _how_ magic should serve man, there is no cause for disagreement or unpleasantness between our provinces.'

'Your grace is rigging the contest against everything that Tevinter represents,' the Magister said. 'Our concerns are justified.'

'Or,' Radonis said, smiling, 'you are completely deprived of any vision, and lack faith in the human qualities of our southern brothers.'

'Qualities such as?' Cassius tiredly inquired.

'Ambition, Magister, ambition,' the Archon scolded. 'How long have we been at war with the south? It's been centuries…And, during that time, what influence have we had over their Circles? I shall tell you: precisely _none_ , because, in their isolation, they have been taught to fear themselves and magic. The southern way for mages is that either they surrender themselves to prison, or they are, a priori, wanted criminals. Do you, and… _parts_ of the Magisterium imagine that this state of things will continue, once _our_ way is demystified?'

The Magister sighed. 'I doubt exposure will cure centuries of indoctrination, your grace.'

'Not in a year, no,' Radonis replied, resting his chin on his palm and thoughtfully gazing at his former pupil. 'But in a decade, it well might…You see, Cassius, the thing that I and your friends in the Magisterium fundamentally disagree over is what actually defines an empire. You think it all lies in the name, and in the borders, perhaps in the banners. I think it lies in shared prosperity and a common culture; after centuries of war, we are, sadly, in dire need for some prosperity, and we have plenty of cultural advances to deliver…why are you not sitting? You are standing on my nerves.'

Cassius sighed once more, and sat the one free armchair before the Archon's desk, keeping a wary eye on Dumat and his bride. 'Perhaps,' he reasoned, feeling somewhat relieved, 'if your grace explained your intentions in these terms…'

'Oh?' Radonis replied, frowning for the first time. 'Would you like me to make a speech on the matter on the Senate floor? We've not stopped the gears of conquest, merely shifted them - should I include that in a communique to Empress Celene and King Alistair Therein? I dislike the fact that I even had to explain it to _you,_ but I see that it was sadly necessary, and I trust that you will set the minds of your friends in the Magisterium at ease as soon as you depart…And now,' the Archon said, dryly, 'I have dealt you another ace. See how you play it.'

'Does Dorian Pavus know all this?' Cassius asked.

'As does his charming wife,' the Archon replied. 'And neither of them needed to be outright _told._ You are, in so many ways, a great disappointment,' he followed, shaking his head. 'You've been at my side for two decades, and you still cannot understand my design…'

'Your grace's reasoning leaves me hopelessly confused, that is true,' the Magister said, dryly. 'If you have found such kindred spirits in Magister Pavus and his charming elf, I see no reason why I am toiling to know what they are thinking and doing.'

'I am a thoughtful man,' Radonis responded, smiling. 'I like to know what my friends are thinking and doing, so that in case they have a need for anything, I can pre-empt them having to ask for that need to be filled. Further, I try to understand their needs – for instance, Veldrin Lavellan does not strike me as a woman who overly grooms herself. She is more, shall we say, a wild beauty?'

'She is an elf,' Cassius sneered.

'A wild and fierce beauty,' Radonis sighed, 'and a woman of enough spirit to entice a living god. Why then, do you think, would her friends in the former Inquisition go through the trouble of bringing her a mirror so tall and wide that they needed to have a special, sixteen wheeled cart constructed for the purpose of delivery?'

'Perhaps it was intended as a gift for Magister Pavus,' Cassius said, congratulating himself for not showing surprise, yet inwardly berating himself.

It was no wonder Radonis was in a foul mood, the Magister thought, admitting to himself that on this particular occasion he perhaps deserved Dumat's attentions. He even considered picking up the creature and stroking it, in an offering of sincere self-flagellation. If she'd snuck a sixteen wheeled cart into the country, Sister Nightingale was beating him bloody already.

'I'd not considered that possibility, thank you, Cassius,' the Archon said, his smile frozen on his features. 'It is a perfectly logical explanation, as Magister Pavus is a tad vain; I'd also not considered the possibility that it is an ironic gift for his mother, so she can watch herself age from all angles. Just in case though,' Radonis snarled, baring his canines and finally showing his anger, 'could you do me the kindness of verifying which bedroom of the Pavus mansion that mirror was to be installed in? Before I fully give up on you and ask Magister Pavus?'

Cassius lowered his glance, and beheld his own clenched fists.

'How long will you give me?' he bitterly inquired.

'Take all the time in the world,' Radonis said, reverting to his light and warm tone of voice. 'I'll make the negotiations with Ferelden last the whole of three days, while I figure out how I shall deal with the Mabari puppy they have gifted me with. I am…not very fond of dogs,' he muttered affectionately glancing at his Antivan water rats. 'I shall pass it on to you – what do you think?'

The Magister shuddered. Dogs, he thought, were not only covered in fur. Dogs drooled.

'It is too generous a gift,' he plaintively responded.

'See that you earn it,' Radonis replied.

* * *

All things considered, Veldrin thought, gazing upon Morrigan's tired and drawn features, not having children presented so many advantages that it was a wonder people still had them. That, and well…

Compared to what Morrigan was suffering, her own brush with Leliana had been a tender caress – Veldrin had never liked the witch of the wilds, but she did feel a tremendous amount of sympathy; no one, not even Morrigan deserved to have their children used against them. The fact that Leliana had planned and ruthlessly executed such a plan, furthermore, the fact that Cassandra had approved it pointed to the fact that much indeed had changed in both women.

And not for the best.

 _If I've grown cynical, they've grown brutal,_ Veldrin thought, feeling a twinge of bitter irony at the realisation that of all those present, the _she-wolf_ and the Tevinter Magister were the only ones who disapproved of the fact that Morrigan's son was being held by Grey Wardens. The method had as much subtlety as an executioner's axe, and it was obvious that one was hanging above the young man's neck. It was true, Morrigan could probably not have been persuaded to involve herself otherwise, yet…

Dorian had not said anything – neither had Veldrin, for that matter – but, to his wife's eye, his entire posture screamed disapprobation; he'd been so stunned by everything that he'd barely arched an eyebrow at the mention of Weisshaupt.

It all made Veldrin wish that she had been the one to drink of the Vir'Abelassan, and that Morrigan would not have been needed…Though, she thought with a little shudder, who knew what suspicions she'd be under, and what method of persuasion Leliana might have picked for her, had things not unfolded as they had.

She looked to Cassandra, and barely refrained from shaking her head in disappointment; the plan had been laid out, and there was no true fault with it, but for…

'Are we actually giving this _child_ a choice?' Dorian blurted, darting to his feet; Morrigan, who'd also kept quiet as Leliana spoke looked at him in surprise and gratitude.

'No,' she whispered. 'No.'

'He is not a child,' Leliana coldly responded, measuring the man from head to toe, and obviously finding him lacking. 'He is…'

'He is seven and ten, hence a child,' Dorian snarled. 'If he was of Tevinter, he'd not be allowed to decide what he wants to wear for dinner.'

'Then, he is not being given a choice because he can't possibly make one,' Sister Nightingale replied. 'Either way, Dorian…'

'Either way,' Veldrin interrupted, 'what you have done here is despicable, Leliana. I can't believe I am saying this, Morrigan,' she followed, turning to the witch, 'but I am desperately sorry that this is happening to you.'

The witch lowered her glance and nodded. 'The irony is, of course,' she softly spoke, 'that Kieran might have helped you of his own accord. 'Tis a good heart that has grown in him.'

'It's not his heart that is of interest to me, but his _soul,_ ' Leliana said. She pressed her fingers to her forehead, and finally sat down, behind Dorian's desk; she wistfully glanced at the shimmering, magically warded door, as if seeking to make sure that any manifestation of humanity on her part would truly not leave the chamber and mar her reputation. 'This was not an easy decision,' she sorrowfully said.

'We had no choice,' Cassandra added, looking to the tips of her boots. 'You left us none, Morrigan,' she added, slowly shaking her head. 'You did everything you possibly could to evade us.'

'Yes,' Dorian sneered. 'I wonder why one would do that, your worship. It is not like you are the type of people one would wish to avoid, like say, the kind that holds children to ransom. Why, if I was in her position, I'd surrender to your tender mercy bound and gagged.'

'Judge me as you will,' Leliana sighed. 'The boy is safe, and he is being treated well.'

'For no other reason than that you need him,' Veldrin muttered.

'Well, Veldrin, if you have knowledge of another vessel of an Old God that we do not know of, I am willing to listen to options,' Cassandra sighed.

'He no longer is that,' Morrigan whispered. 'Flemeth…Mythal took that from him almost a decade ago – he is just a boy. He is a good, kind boy.'

Leliana did not raise her glance at the plea, and Veldrin bit her lower lip in anger. It did not matter that the young man might have been a good and cheerful lad; the only thing that did matter was the fact that he could truly contain a divine essence, and in this, he had no more relevance than an empty bottle or an empty coffer.

'Alright, Leliana,' she sighed. 'Let us say you do get the genie out of Solas, and into Kieran. What happens to him, then? Do I need to even mention that he will then become not only the container of Urthemiel but also that of Mythal? Isn't that a bit much for a seventeen year old to handle?'

'You handled your mark well,' Leliana answered, finally lifting her glance to Veldrin's. 'And you were not meant to bear it. Who were you, when you received it? A little elven mage, sent in to spy on the Divine.'

'Maker's balls,' Dorian exploded, 'the wheels of time are rolling backwards! Poor, misguided Alexius, he did not realise he did not need a spell to re-write history, he simply needed to hire you!'

'While the events at the Conclave are now very clear, no one has explained why a non-circle mage was present there in the first place,' Leliana calmly answered.

'For the one hundred thousandth time,' Veldrin sighed, in exasperation, 'I was returning a book to one of the mages…'

'Shut up, Vel,' Dorian shot. 'Everyone knows elves can't read, and like to sneak about finding ways to assassinate religious figures, when they are not sneaking about burning villages, as the events of Red Crossing clearly show; your guise is thin. Better stick to the cover story we spent ten years concocting, and just say you were there to serve soup.'

'This is leading us nowhere,' Cassandra intervened.

'But I do so enjoy a circular argument,' the man said, looking at the Divine in open fury.

'That might well be, Dorian,' she sighed, 'but it is really not useful. What is done is done, and it was _not_ done with a light heart. Truly, think what you will, but do start thinking.'

The Magister sat back down, and breathed in and out, deeply and purposefully – Veldrin felt naught but the need to embrace him, then, but a second later, remembered that she could. She stood from her chair, and sat at his feet, gracefully gathering her dress about herself before leaning her forehead on his knee.

'Can your son even do this?' she tiredly inquired, finding that the fact he'd placed his hand on her shoulder gave her enough courage to meet Morrigan's glance. The witch sighed, and bit her lower lip.

'He cannot,' she said. 'But I can; Flemeth's grimoire would have been sufficient for me to know how to channel an essence from body to body. The voices of Vir'Abelasan tell me how to refine the process, though,' Morrigan whispered, 'they warn me against it…I wish you had drunk of that well, Inquisitor. I do not know why you did not. Your _vallaslin_ is that of a follower of Mythal, you could have…'

 _…taken this cup from me._

'I was still only First,' Veldrin answered. 'I did not feel worthy; besides, Morrigan, she was thought to be dead. Even my Keeper sought to discourage this particular blood writing, and wished that I would take Sylaise's marking instead, as, according to him, I am a peace maker and I don't have a single vengeful bone in my body. He was wrong.' the elf said. 'He didn't suspect that we still grow bones even after we're of age. In fact, I've grown most of my bones after I left home…Fortunately for him,' Veldrin said, with grim cheer, 'he was killed before he could learn he was wrong. I should have been braver. I am sorry, Morrigan.'

'I am not,' Leliana said. 'It might have made your already questionable attachments even more questionable.'

 _When the time comes_ , Veldrin thought, feeling all of her bones grow in the silence that followed, _I will hurt you. If you are still capable of love, I will find the one thing that you love and destroy it. I will not even take pleasure in it. It will simply be…justice._

'Does Mythal have no hold over you, Morrigan?' Dorian asked.

'Her entire strength has been taken into Fen'Harel,' the witch carefully answered. 'I can feel her – 'tis a tug, a tickle, a scratch at the door in the dark night, yet it's naught but her will and her consciousness. He now has all of her power, and while she can make her wishes known, she has no means to enforce action.'

'Can we not spare your son the agony?' Veldrin inquired. 'If you can channel the essence, you could channel it into me.'

'No,' Cassandra said.

'It would kill you, Vel,' Dorian unexpectedly agreed. 'The mark was killing you. If Solas had not taken your arm, you'd not be here. And I like you being here more than you know.'

'Kieran can contain both essences,' Leliana dryly said.

'Kieran is seven and ten; I am three and forty,' Veldrin said. 'I've lived, I've hoped. I've loved and dreamed. I've walked the beyond – the beyond is not so bad.'

'That is not the problem, Inquisitor,' Morrigan said. 'I cannot know if even my son can hold both, and for how long…'

'The entire purpose of this exercise is to take away Solas' powers, while containing all three essences,' Leliana added. 'We do not want the…the child to die, and have Mythal's full powers return to the fade. That would be...counterproductive.'

'Aren't we forgetting the obvious, though?' Dorian asked. 'Let us assume that this will function as intended, and we will place all this immense energy in the hands of an innocent who would not use it for harm even if he knew how to; let us further assume that, in the course of his natural life – in a tight box, in Weisshaupt…yes, Leliana? – he does not learn how to use it, and Maker forbid, develop some utterly unexplainable spiteful intentions. The young man is still human. He will, eventually, die.'

'That was my thought as well,' Veldrin nodded. 'Even if Kieran lives another seven decades, his years would be a drop of water in an ocean for a being like Mythal.'

Leliana and Cassandra exchanged a glance. 'We've considered that,' the Divine said, slowly. 'Mythal is not the one who intends to tear down the veil. Fen'Harel is, and he will remain in Solas' form, which, for all we know, is immortal in our meaning of the word.'

Veldrin sighed, thinking that not even small mercies were mercies in the end – she'd not had to explain why Solas should not be killed. The thought of him somehow imprisoned forever was equally painful, however, and she'd not allowed herself to truly contemplate the notion thus far.

She had to, now.

'How do you plan…' the elf began asking, finding that her words would not obey her to the end. 'You will put Kieran in a box in Weisshaupt,' she willed herself to say. 'Where will you place Solas' box?'

'As far away from any elven ruin as possible,' Leliana off-handedly replied.

'And they are sure as hell they will not tell _us_ where,' Dorian muttered.

'Veldrin, I…' Cassandra apologetically began.

'You will agree it is a necessary precaution, I am sure,' Leliana interrupted.

'Very necessary,' Veldrin nodded; for all the fury she felt, her voice had been remarkably bland. 'I understand. The only thing I do not understand is _why_ you are here, and why you have even bothered to inform me of your plans, if…'

'They had no choice with that, either,' Morrigan said, a twinge of cold satisfaction in her voice.

'How so?' Veldrin asked.

'They cannot capture Fen'Harel in Thaedas,' the witch answered, with a little crooked smile. 'Do you remember all those elven artefacts you busily ran around activating, at Solas' behest?'

'Yes,' Veldrin shrugged. 'They were meant to…'

 _Strengthen the veil._

'Oh crap,' Dorian said, catching on at the same time. 'They work both ways.'

'Exactly,' Morrigan nodded. 'They can weave the veil thick, but also spin it as fine as a spider's web, thus he can physically jump in the fade whenever he so wishes, even without an eluvian. 'Tis my belief that this is how he has gathered his people, as well, for not all elves would willingly follow the Dread Wolf. If he controls the veil, though, he controls their dreams, and…'

'And he is doing to the people exactly what the Evanuris did, before he sealed them away,' Veldrin whispered.

 _Oh, Vhenan,_ she thought. _This is what you did not wish me to see…That you would enslave the very people you killed to free. That, in the end, you've become the very thing that you hated._

'Had we known about this sooner,' Leliana stingingly said, 'we might have tried to prevent it, but most of the damage was done before we had even learned of Fen'Harel, and we were still focused on the Qun. Once we did realise the truth, it was too late.'

'It also explains why the elves in Tevinter stayed put,' Dorian reasoned, biting his lower lip. He bitterly chuckled. 'And to think the Magisterium spent five years congratulating ourselves on how good a hold we had on our minions, eh.'

'It is also why, if we seek to entrap him, it needs to be in Tevinter,' Cassandra tiredly put in. 'For better or worse, the veil is still solid here, or, at the very least, not under his direct control.'

'While I am needed because every trap needs a bait, right?' Veldrin shot.

'No,' Leliana sighed. 'You are needed because Cassandra insisted we cannot do this to you without at least warning you of it.'

'Thank you, your worship,' the elf sneered; Divine Victoria shook her head in sorrow. 'The fact that you could not possibly hide this from _us_ did not even occur to you, we are sure.'

'Which brings me to another delicate point that we are gracefully dancing around, like so many elves in a dewy meadow,' the Magister said. 'How much does Radonis know? I am sure I do not need to explain to you that allowing him to get his hands on whatever box you plan to put Solas in would be very, very bad.'

Leliana lowered her glance, and allowed herself to smile. 'Well, Dorian, that is sadly out of my domain, and firmly in yours; you'll have to decide precisely how much you trust the good nature of your countrymen.'

'When it regards fade walking?' he muttered. 'Not at all. Our record on the subject is not exactly the best.'

'Then I hope you are a very good liar,' Leliana shrugged, 'as you will have to tell him _something_.'

'I would strongly advise against it. Strenuously, even,' Dorian said, decisively shaking his head. 'Radonis is a better man than most, but…'

'The temptation is too great, Leliana,' Veldrin softly completed. 'Even if Radonis himself would understand the inherent danger, we would be placing him in an impossible position, politically. At least half the Magisterium would see him allowing something like a living god to slip though his fingers as at least criminal negligence.'

'I am glad we all agree on this, at least,' Leliana said, with a little smirk. 'The option of not informing him at all doesn't exist, though.'

'Why?' Dorian tiredly asked.

'Because he's intercepted our only controllable eluvian,' Sister Nightingale answered.

…and, as all the expletives in the language were insufficient, Dorian invented a few new ones; had he known that outside the warded barrier of his study, servants were busying themselves unhinging the entry doors to make room for the travelling mirror, which had been delivered to its destination with such pomp as one might have expected for the bones of an Imperator, he'd probably have swallowed his words.

* * *

Thank you for reading and commenting :)

Up next - Vel and Dorian are about to be masterfully outplayed. I think they have already been outplayed, just...they don't realise it.


	5. Of an actress too honest

_And the Great Conductor of the Choir heard him._

 ** _Silence 1:8._**

* * *

'Smile and wave, you say,' Dorian sighed.

'You say that. I say fucking fuck,' Veldrin answered, shirking close to him.

'Appropriate,' the man whispered. 'And we're being had without ointment.'

In the hallway beneath the staircase they were standing on, Archon Radonis was exchanging casual pleasantries with Dorian's mother. He was probably the only man in the Imperium who _could_ exchange pleasantries with his mother, Dorian thought, and the only man who could survive having the doors unhinged to bring in a thing that looked so obviously elven that his mother might have smashed it on the spot.

In a sense, he reasoned, on this one occasion he'd not have minded his mother's temper flaring. Smash the eluvian, forget about Solas, don't torture a child, don't chance awakening an Old God and start a Blight, and, among other minor things, don't break Veldrin's heart, if at all possible.

'Now we _need_ to tell him something,' she whispered. 'He's made it unavoidable.'

'No…' he mumbled. 'You think? We have precisely two minutes to decide what we tell him, though, and I suggest it should not be the truth.'

'Would you find it terribly disturbing,' Vel said, casting a worried glance over her shoulder to the study where Leliana, Morrigan and Cassandra still sat, 'if I told you that I trust Radonis more than I trust Leliana, at the moment?'

'I would not find it disturbing, I'd find it short sighted,' he replied. 'Look,' Dorian whispered, 'he only supported us and the Inquisition against the Venatori because we were winning. He'd have supported the Venatori otherwise. There are plenty of those who sympathised with Corypheus and his lot still in the Magisterium. Radonis' old pupil, Cassius, is one of them, and if you think Radonis doesn't know where _his_ sympathies lied, you are mistaken.'

'Hm,' Veldrin said, softly. 'I wonder how much he's needling our dear friend Cassius by doing this…'

'He's not needling him, Vel,' Dorian answered, 'he's putting Fereldan fire ants in his tender parts, and watching him squirm.'

 _As much as he's watching us squirm,_ he thought.

'I doubt Cassius saw this coming more than we did; this is a slap that will send him spinning and set his entire side of the Senate on fire. Which will set _our_ half of the Senate on fire.'

 _And we shall have a lovely, lovely bloodbath, to which all are invited, while Radonis is free to do as he likes, from above._

'And I thought Cassius only hated us because of our sense of dress,' Veldrin breathed.

'You'd be half right to think that, your sense of dress is terrible – somehow, you've never let go of that Solas inspired apostate hobo vibe,' Dorian said, biting his lower lip to prevent himself from smiling, then looking away to disguise the growing hardness in his eyes.

She was a brave little sprite, he thought.

'I suggest we explain the eluvian,' Veldrin said. 'What it is, what it does…'

'That will just lead him to asking what it is doing here,' Dorian answered. 'Besides, I am unsure if I recall my lies from eight years ago – I might have reported it's ancient and non-functional elven voodoo, nothing to see here, move along…'

'Well,' his wife said, placing her cold, dead arm on the bannister, in sign that she was ready to descend. 'Make an effort to remember what you did invent, because at least one of us is still too pretty to die. We'll tell him what it is, this time…It's the means by which we shall bring Solas here to kill him. Because, regardless of what Leliana wants, and the risks it entails, we _shall_ kill him, shan't we?'

She was also a curiously practical little sprite; no wonder he'd really sat for a painting with her, he thought, placing his arm about her waist, and noticing, with great satisfaction, that his mother had seen them both and had gathered the look of a caged bird of prey.

'Magistra Pavus,' Radonis exclaimed, standing a tad too briskly.

Maybe, Dorian thought, not even the Archon could bear his mother for quite that long.

'I seem to have found something of yours,' the Archon said, grinning from ear to ear. 'And it is large.'

'You honour my daughter in law too highly, your grace,' the dowager lady Pavus said. 'She is not a Magistra…'

'But she will be one soon; my intentions in what regard her must be the worst kept secret in Tevinter. Dorian,' Radonis greeted, offering his hand – Dorian shook it, actually feeling terrified. 'You have a lovely home, and a lovely family. If only we'd count new additions…And Veldrin, you look radiant.'

A radiant little sprite, Dorian thought…A radiant little sprite Veldrin was not.

His mother mercifully retreated, after Radonis gracefully but somewhat repetitively extended farewells, and promised he would visit again, very soon, and doubtlessly stay for dinner.

In the shade of the eluvian, the two humans looked particularly small – the thing was heavily warded, and radiated a cold aura. Dorian felt naught but the need to step away from it, yet Radonis had decisively approached it; to the Magister's great concern, he was scrutinising it attentively, neither showing any intent of sitting back down nor giving any hope that he might have been lured into another room of the house.

'A very beautiful antique,' Radonis remarked. 'Do you intend to have it restored?'

'If we can, we will,' Veldrin said, smiling. 'Your grace has ruined Leliana's surprise,' she outright giggled – the Archon chuckled, in turn, as if he'd somehow sensed the elf was not even lying.

'I thought she'd already given you a surprise,' he answered. 'I'd not like you to be overwhelmed by Sister Nightingale's attentions, just in case you forget that we care for you too – which we do, very deeply.'

He clenched his hands behind his back, expecting surrender, then, but a second later, prompting it.

'What is this, Dorian?' Radonis asked.

'It is called an eluvian,' Veldrin responded, in her husband's stead. She passed her right hand over the mirror's surface, and, responding to her barely there touch, the eluvian rippled as a clear pond beset by a sudden hail of pebbles. 'It is hard to even pronounce the word,' she followed, softly, 'as no one alive has heard it spoken; my accentuation might be imprecise. I've only seen its name written, and, as your grace well knows, elven is remarkably vague.'

'I am afraid I am not a scholar of it, either,' Radonis agreeably said. 'This word, and the device is describes, is not one of the many things the old Imperium _borrowed_ from Elvhenan.'

 _Borrowed, of course, being the concept we all - except for the tiny pebble that is Solas - agree on,_ Dorian thought.

'One rarely borrows that which is of no use,' Veldrin shrugged. 'And this would not be of use,' she said, decisively turning her back on the mirror. 'By the time the Imperium found these, they would have been largely inoperable, and rendered so by the Elvhen themselves.'

'What they were,' she truthfully explained, 'was a means of transportation through the veil. This is why Elvhenan had no roads – we used these to move about.'

'A strange replacement for a road network,' Radonis said, frowning. 'How does one move caravans, or indeed, armies through such a thing?'

'They did not all look the same,' Veldrin replied. 'In my very brief experience of them, I have seen ones wide enough that a hundred knights might have passed, riding shoulder to shoulder. All dark,' she said, in truthful sorrow. 'You,' she said, meeting Radonis' glance, 'slam doors and destroy bridges when you go to war. The people smashed mirrors. By the time of the ancient Imperium, we'd smashed too many of them to count.'

Radonis nodded, thoughtfully glancing at the eluvian. 'Does it only respond to you, or can I or Dorian…'

'Magic is magic,' Dorian replied, finding his courage. He took a step forward, and held his hand to the mirror's surface without touching it – the eluvian rippled, just as it had with Veldrin. 'The disconcerting part is that since the method has long been lost, these are as vague as eleven turns of phrase; one cannot know where they will lead until one actively commits to reading the sentence to the end. Or, in this case, actively pass through them.'

'Fascinating – I do not even recall reading of this, Dorian,' Radonis stung.

Veldrin laughed. 'He had not yet worked his charm on me, thus he was…Excluded from the exploration of the first eluvian the Inquisition encountered for a number of reasons that I am certain your grace needs not be reminded of.'

'In other words,' Dorian shrugged, feeling more confident by the minute, 'they were as willing to share this with a Tevinter as we might be in sharing a copy of the Liberalum. Not the Brother Genitivi version of it…'

Radonis shuddered. 'Brother Genitivi wrote a Liberalum? Maker, no wonder the south thinks we are all walking demons. We should have the proper one distributed, once we sign with Ferelden.'

'So you should,' Veldrin said. 'In any event, Dorian is correct. Eluvians are pathways; sometimes wide, sometimes narrow; sometimes leading to great crossroads, sometimes but point to point links. Some entrances only. I think Sister Nightingale hopes we can restore this one into an exit only. An exit that can only lead to a trap through which death will swiftly follow, to the ruin of the upstart, but to our continued well being, and to the future friendships between our people.'

'We did not know of her plan until half past this hour,' Dorian hurriedly followed, 'and we are unsure if this is feasible. We…I,' he humbly said, 'am rather keen to keep my magical failures to myself. If we succeed in making this portal into a trap, we shall certainly seek your assistance in how to make it deadly. Thus far, we do not know…'

The Archon measured them both, his glance lingering on Veldrin's dead arm. 'So much death of once you once loved must hurt so _._ '

Veldrin swallowed dry, and nodded, keeping her head bowed. 'I never truly loved my arm, your grace.' She said, telling the truth with a lie. The tears in the corners of her golden eyes were real, however, and though Dorian had no illusion that Radonis was convinced of their hasty play, he also knew that Radonis was a delicate enough man not to press further. He had gotten all that he'd gone out of his way to find.

'I would remove myself to the company of old friends,' Veldrin said. 'As your grace knows, they are in the library, and I would…'

'Magistra Pavus, of course,' Radonis nodded. 'I meant no harm to you, nor wished a reminder of harm once done upon you. I'd not intended to linger, in the first place, just assure myself that you know I will help you in any way that I can.'

She nodded, and ran up the stairs, all too quick bare feet taking three steps at the time.

In the shadow of the eluvian, both humans were truly small, but only one of them knew it for certain.

'Don't try that again, Magister Pavus,' the one who did not see himself in true light said, in a sad and tired voice. 'I don't like wasting time on divining who is with me and who against me, and this kind of countering is beneath us both.'

'Your grace,' Dorian said, lowering his glance. He felt more ashamed than fearful.

* * *

Up next - we shall thank you for reading and commenting on this one, and there will be a new chapter tomorrow.


	6. Of Principles and their Sorrowful Demise

_The High Priest of Beauty, Architect of the Works of Beauty, designed_

 _Every work and wonder of the Imperium according to the plans of his god._

 _To him, the Conductor went in secret, armed_

 _With the whisper of Silence._

 **Silence 2:1**

* * *

 _You imagine that it is always power that is the prize. Don't you, Morrigan?_

'That was before I beheld Kieran,' the witch said, sitting up in her bed. 'That was before I loved. Where are you, Flemeth? These words in my mind, these thistles, these cruelties…'

Tiny fires of forgotten fairies lit up Morrigan's bedroom, dancing and jumping. Two at first, but then ten, then twenty, then a hundred; it felt like less of a prison, with the tiny, impertinent lights.

 _Guess again. The first hint is – not Flemeth._

'I cannot speak to you, Inquisitor.' Morrigan said, guessing right.

 _Why? You're dreaming, and Leliana cannot follow us here. You think you are awake in bed, you are not. I see you, you are on your side, amid many pillows that do not help you rest. Your dreams are very dark, even without me. You sweat. Now, you turn only to find the other side of your pillow is wet as well…_

'Your arm was recovered with blood magic, Veldrin Lavellan.' The witch muttered. ''Tis plain to see…'

 _Ah, Malefica Imperio... It took the blood of an innocent to restore my arm, yes. Further blood from that same innocent for me to walk in your dream…all so we could have this talk. Don't fight me, I am not here to harm you._

An inescapable sensation of warmth washed over Morrigan, and she felt at ease, despite the fact that her mind was reeling in alarm.

'You've changed,' she said; the thing in her thoughts was amused.

 _Of course I have. It's been eight years. Haven't we all? Changed?_

'You are still only a pale imitation of true power,' Morrigan responded. 'Blood magic…'

 _Has its limits, yes. Or, perhaps, I am not using enough of it. I saw no reason why I would try to manifest a physical presence by your side. It would be too much effort, and it would leave you under the illusion that you can lie to me. Does Solas manifest a physical presence when he does visit?_

The urge to lie rose and fell in the same heartbeat, punished by no more than a playful tug at the corners of thought.

 _I told you you can't lie._

'Then why is there a need for me to speak?' the witch asked, in irritation.

 _Because I am not as good as he was, and not even he could travel the mind as he travelled the fade. He could only create dreams, not watch past ones, because ironically, the dreams of the living Shem, elves included, are too weak to truly pass into his domain. I cannot wander through your mind as I would like – you need to show me around._

'Only once he appeared to me,' Morrigan relented. 'To assure himself I would not be a hindrance, which, as you well know, I'd not have been, had I not been found by the fearful and pathetic protectors of the Chant. His heart is unchanged,' she briefly added, trusting by now that even she did not voice her full thought, Veldrin could see it.

 _He's not fond of change, no._

She felt sorrow, cold and crisp.

'Why do you oppose him, Inquisitor?' she asked of the dream voice. 'You must know that his world, his vision is no danger to you…You must know that if he succeeds, you'd become immortal. Why would you, of all…'

 _You see? You do imagine that power is always the prize. The world we currently inhabit is not a pretty picture, Morrigan; I do not think fully reversing it would spell perfection, either. What is now a mountain that rests its snowy brow in the sky would become an abyssal chasm. What is now a chasm would become a mountain, but what would truly change? We'd still have mountains and chasms._

'That is inevitable,' Morrigan replied.

 _True, but if the inevitable is to be accepted, I see no reason why the entire world should suffer to achieve a different state of misery. It is my choice not to hurt others, and it is my choice not to hurt you, Morrigan…I wish I had had a choice in what regards Kieran._

That much was true, the witch felt, as warmth and sorrow passed over her and through her.

'I believe you,' she said, looking at her clenched hands; they did not look like her own, yet felt familiar. She was, Morrigan realised, truly dreaming. 'Betwixt entire worlds and my son, I would choose my son, yet now, that Leliana has him, there is no place left to retreat to. I know what you want, Veldrin Lavellan, but I cannot give it…'

 _Warden Stroud…_

'Warden Stroud has long forgotten you, and all he owes you,' Morrigan whispered. 'The gratitude of humankind is as short as its sight – even if it was not so, you are now of Tevinter. The only true and knowing friend you have left in Thaedas is Varric, and he is a Child of the Stone. He can do nothing for either you or Kieran.'

One of the many lights drifted before the witch's eyes, and blinked rapidly, in frustration. The dream voice sounded irritated.

 _I cannot help you if you do not help me, witch._

'I have no means to help you,' Morrigan replied. 'You'd kill him if you could, I know this much.'

 _So tell me how to. You must know; the well is within you, you know. Tell me. You are so many things, Morrigan, but you are not a coward._

'He cannot be killed more than Mythal can be killed, Lavellan.' The witch replied. 'There is a danger greater than you can imagine here…'

 _I am more aware of that than you care to know._

'You are again asserting knowledge I assure you, you do not possess,' Morrigan snarled. 'In her blindness, Leliana does not grasp that mere human prisons will not hold Fen'Harel. He may be weakened and brought back to his own level of strength, but that strength will gather over time – he needs naught _but time_. No, Lavellan, the only way in which he can truly be defeated is not taking away his powers or killing him. It's taking away his intent.' She finished, knowing that the satisfaction in her thoughts could not be hidden, and not caring to hide it. 'For good.'

'Oh yes,' Morrigan laughed. 'You would not think of this, Veldrin Lavellan, your mind cannot travel to that…who is helping you with this blood ritual, Inquisitor? How much do you trust the innocent whom you are torturing now? How much do you trust…'

She abruptly sat up, in the perfect darkness of her bedchamber, and leaned back on her arms; her pillow was indeed wet, and she must have truly thrashed in her sleep, for the bedding was in terrible disarray. She wondered whether Lavellan had truly been standing over her all this time, yet…It no longer mattered, Morrigan thought, resting her sweaty forehead in her cool hand – she was awake now, and the voice, as the presence was gone.

'Not very much trust, then,' she whispered, feeling a chill though the satisfaction of landing the final attack did not dissipate. 'Not very much at all.'

* * *

'Tranquility,' Veldrin whispered, opening her eyes, in her own bed chamber; Dorian wordlessly removed the garrote from her left arm, and placed the waiting cup of warm brandy in her right hand. 'She thinks the only way we can actually stop him is tranquility.'

'This is going from the horrible to the obscene,' he sighed, tiredly walking away from her. 'All of this, Veldrin,' he reproachfully added, gesturing towards her open, black veins. 'You will never heal.'

'I know,' the elf softly responded. 'Thank you, for…'

'You will never heal of _anything_ ,' Dorian said – she guessed him to be both angry and concerned, but he helped her pull on an elbow-high very tight glove. 'Drink up,' he gently prompted, keeping expert pressure on her vein, just above the place where the silk of the glove was turning rosy. The woman winced, but obeyed.

'A healing potion…' Veldrin began.

'We do not have any, anywhere in the house, and you well know why we do not,' he scolded, shaking his head. 'You wanted to do this, you did it, now you must suffer; it's a very steep and slippery slope, Veldrin – you bleed yourself, drink a potion, and you are _fine_ , so you will bleed yourself just a little more the next time, or…'

… _Or,_ Veldrin thought, closing her eyes and allowing the warm, strong drink to spread some pleasant numbness though her chest and head, _I will begin thinking that anyone else that I bleed will be fine. And then…_

He did not say it, but she knew he was thinking it.

'Nobody starts out by outright believing they will become a monster,' the man said, and she knew all too well it was all true.

Though blood magic was not as prevalent in the Imperium as the south might have believed, it was still not at all rare, and many, sometimes people that both Veldrin and Dorian had regarded as close had gone down its path very fast, and with swiftly diminishing moral qualms. At first, their circles could not have been avoided, as both their attempts at reconstructing her arm had failed; Doran had insisted, then, and it had not been a question of esthetics – Veldrin needed her magic, and needed her arm, so they had frequented people he would normally have avoided, and learned things that neither had, at least for the beginning, wished to learn.

She'd been the better study, her curiosity unhindered by the actual experience of where the path could lead. The things they'd learned, the things they had done, were slightly painful but harmed none, and they'd succeeded in reconstructing her arm, so her curiosity had expanded. His had stopped once the goal had been accomplished, and he'd never looked back. She'd kept learning, and learned, disguising her genuine curiosity in the many veils of needing to overcome perceptions – attend this party or that, speak to this Magister, have tea with this Magistra. See people and be seen seeing them, don't look like a little savage provincial…

She'd never fooled him, and she was grateful.

There was power here, cheap and plentiful; Veldrin had truly never loved her mark, but had soon come to miss the influence it had given her, the sudden accidental elevation that she had managed so well. Blood magic was easy, and her body made blood. Not only that, but she was _good_ , very good, and learning what their circles of social acquaintances knew had made her realise she was actually more naturally talented, and inherently more powerful that any of the bred for Shem she was surrounded with.

The first time he'd caught her using it alone had been the closest to a genuine row they had ever come. They'd not actually rowed, though, because on that occasion, her first attempt at the dream walking she'd accomplished tonight, she'd minutely failed to kill herself. Had Dorian not wandered in, with a great lust for playing Diamondback, she probably might have. He'd growled at her a little on the next day, but that had been that – the subject had not been brought up again until, a few weeks later, he'd oddly accepted an invitation to a soiree from a couple he considered ghastly, but whose presence Veldrin actually enjoyed.

They'd stayed longer than Dorian normally countenanced the other two. Deserts and digestives had come and gone, they'd danced, and they'd laughed, and enjoyed each other more than the company. She'd actually started to wonder if she'd been wrong on her husband's dislike of the two when he'd not shown any signs of wanting to depart even when the number of guests had thinned threadbare, until, of course, in select company, the hosts had decided to end the evening on a high note, and make a fireworks display.

A beautiful, white horse had been brought into the mansion's vestibule. It had been shown around, it had been touched – Veldrin even remembered the feel of his fur. She'd fed it a piece of apple, just before it had been put on a small dais and stabbed in the throat. From its blood, the master of the house had conjured lights in the night sky, of such colours and vivacity as Veldrin could not have imagined, and would never have seen in the clearing where she'd grown up, where a fir tree branch thrown on an open fire threw sparks that made children and grown elves laugh and clap.

The colours and lights of a dream, but she'd not rushed to the balcony because all she could see was the crimson of the animal's blood weaved to magic by her host's fingers. It was still thrashing as the wondrous lights danced, and she'd wanted no more than to turn and run – there was a dream before her eyes, and blood pooling under her feet. She'd started for the door, but Dorian had held her tight, and tightly in place.

'The next time they do this, it will be an elf, not a horse, Amata,' he'd whispered in her ear, as the blood of the animal destroyed their expensive shoes. 'This is where it leads.'

With those few words he'd made a point the southern Chantry had fought to make for generations, and she had stopped…for a month, then half a year…for a while. Just as with all things that bring power or pleasure, the hook had been sunk in her mind, and its tug had proven too powerful to completely resist. She'd watched herself, however, and finally, when she'd realised that the temptation of going too far was too much for her alone to reign in, she'd confessed, and asked him to actively watch her, too.

Defeated, and with no sense of humour on the matter, Dorian had agreed, while Veldrin had found the confines he set comforting and comfortable; she'd even jested that, with this arrangement behind them, it was a bit clearer why some southern mages actually liked their templars. He'd not even cracked a smile.

As, she feared, he'd not smile again tonight.

Veldrin kept her eyes closed for a second longer, then forced herself to open them, for no other reason than that she felt weak and nauseated, and was loath to give in to either sensation.

'Well,' the man sighed, 'this is what happens when you do things you should not be doing, to find answers to questions you should not be asking.'

He'd sat on the edge of her bed, looking as though he was too tired to even be angry.

'You're right, of course. I should probably not have asked.'

Dorian drew a deep breath and pressed his fingers to his forehead. 'No chance she is lying?' he asked.

'I do not think so,' Veldrin quietly replied. 'I get the very strong sensation that, had Leliana not twisted her arm, Morrigan would be more than pleased to let Solas destroy the veil. She's…not very much of this world, either.'

'Now, after the well, even less than before,' he agreed. 'Morrigan is correct in one aspect, though, Veldrin – tranquility is a prison that not even Solas can escape on his own.' Dorian said, questioningly glancing at her. 'Hear me through,' he said, when she opened her mouth to protest. 'I am feeling rather a dunce for needing a pint of your blood to see this – it eliminates both the chance of a later awakening, and crucially, settles our concern that anyone will understand his power and try to replicate it…'

'Tranquility can be reversed,' Veldrin said, dryly.

'Perhaps,' he shrugged, 'but Cassandra's Seekers of Truth are the only ones who know how to, and I do not see them being forthcoming with that information. In fact, I think if this simple and masterful idea occurs to Leliana, that book of the Seekers' will be fire food within the hour.'

'Cassandra is not one to bury knowledge, Dorian. It goes against every principle she's ever upheld.' The woman refuted, shaking her head and feeling as if the dead flesh of her arm had started to stretch under her healthy skin.

'Well, Amata,' he slowly replied, 'I am not seeing anyone's principles putting up much of a fight, here. Never mind Cassandra's or Leliana's…Neither yours nor mine are looking quite as bright and shiny as either of us would prefer them to be; you're tethering on the verge of becoming a maleficarum, and I am on the verge of becoming Vivienne, dispensing tranquility rites and burning books, left and right – I am unsure which is worse. Maker,' he whispered. 'Solas is right,' Dorian bitterly chuckled. 'Conflict does breed the need for simplicity. Don't do this, Vel…' he said, at some length.

'What?' she asked, in return; she'd not noticed for how long she'd remained silent.

'Hide. Not tell me what you're thinking,' the man said. 'Even if you are thinking that simplicity for you, now, would be to warn Solas of what we are planning, let this world burn, and have whatever god sort out his own. Even if you are thinking that, don't hide.'

She looked away, fighting the sudden, growing cold of their very first distance.

'If Solas alone walked untouched by this life's massacre of all our principles,' the woman said, trying to smile once more, 'I'd be thinking that, yes. But he's not, so…Did Corypheus not…'

'Pose any moral dilemmas to me?' he chuckled, making the room and the air between them just a tiny bit warmer. 'No, none at all – and it is funny that you should ask _now._ Back then, you were the only one who took my intentions at face value.'

'Perhaps because we time travelled and dealt him the first defeat of many together,' Veldrin said. 'Hard to hold on to suspicions after that…'

'Leliana might be worth a mention in that context, Vel,' he said, with a wink.

'Maybe, but you and I are the only ones who remember what Corypheus' world might have looked like.'

'True…No, I never had any moral qualms,' Dorian said. 'In fact, personal context meant I probably wanted to gouge his eyes out more than any of you. The world he sought to bring back was not some sort of idyllic legend – it was not even a legend, per se. It is not the same for you and Elvhenan; we know the truth of its fall was far from Dalish tales, but we still know close to nothing about its actual existence. Maybe it was knife ear heaven, and maybe it was the best of all worlds for your people…'

She groaned and rolled her eyes, slowly relaxing. 'Not even Solas says it was that.'

'My point is that I cannot and could not excuse anyone in present day Tevinter who'd seek to bring back the Old Imperium,' Dorian shrugged, 'because we actually _know_ what the Old Imperium was like. We killed half the world. We started the Blights. Would I be ready to comprehend how a mistreated Tevinter slave, a Dalish elf, hounded from forest to forest, or a city elf, scurrying like vermin…how any scion of a culture once proudly rooted and powerful, now rendered unwelcome on its own lands would dream of a recovered Elvhenan? Far more so. Being misled by a dream is not the same magnitude of crime as ignoring reality, Vel.'

'That is why,' he ended, in a kind tone, 'I would prefer to stop Solas only, not an army of Elvhen. We've fought the Qun for three years…Did you not see Iron Bull in every Qunari we killed?'

'Yes,' she whispered. 'Of course I did.'

'I would prefer stopping _him._ Ending the one man, the one person, _once,_ rather than seeing he, who I grudgingly respected, you, who I respect and deeply care for, and even silly, outrageous Sera, who inspired naught but bewilderment, in the face of every elf I kill.'

Veldrin gathered her knees to her chest.

'But could you live with yourself with looking into his eyes and finding them empty?' the woman dreamily queried.

'Forgive me, Vel, but I and Solas did not do much gazing in each other's eyes.' Dorian answered, lifting both eyebrows. 'Somehow, he was very adamant that I am not his type.'

'Perhaps,' she said. 'Would you…then, prefer to prove Morrigan right? Mankind,' Veldrin whispered, tilting her head to the side to meet his glance, 'stumbles through the world, killing all its wonders…'

 _Elves,_ she thought. _Spirits, dragons…_

'For better or worse Solas is one of the few wonders left in the world,' she continued, curling in bed, by his side, for the lightheadedness caused by the blood loss was truly beginning to affect her. 'He's also the only true link the Elvhen have to our past…and I know what _you_ are thinking, that if he is made tranquil, he will become the greatest library the world has ever known, but…'

'…it is not the same for you,' Dorian said, distractedly playing with the tip of her ear.

'It is one thing to read about Minrathous and well another to see it,' Veldrin shrugged, shifting her head on the pillow, to pleadingly meet his glance. He grinned at the shy manipulation attempt.

'These days, it is better to read about it than see it,' he sighed. 'I understand where you are leading, Veldrin, yet Solas is…'

Dorian paused, looking for his words. 'I understand his shock at the world in which he awoke, at the terrible consequences of his actions; I even understand his hostility to me, as sublimation. For all his curiosity and erudition, this man is a hot-tempered warrior, though. He will not share a renewed Elvhenan with humans, even if they are magically and spiritually aware. He will massacre the Qun to a child. In fact, I am in serious doubt he will welcome the Shem elves in his Elvhenan – you were less of an ant to him than most of us, but that was because…How did Sera put it? Ah, drop'em small clothes, and rebuild the empire! Phwoar, patriotic duty, vhenan!' he chuckled, making her smile sadly at the memory as well.

'Might have been the Mark alone…' she scolded.

 _Everything might feel so much easier if it was only that._

'I think it was both,' he said, caressing her hair. 'You not only survived it, but you managed to manipulate the fade open as well as closed, without anyone teaching you how to. You also briefly gained control of his focus orb…'

'Only to destroy it,' Veldrin softly refuted.

'Details, details... There is probably something in you that only he saw. That only he _could_ see. Maybe you can actually make little god-elves on your own – I propose an experiment.' He followed, in regained humour. 'You let go of this abstinence nonsense, and have a go at some happy monkey business with someone else but him. I doubt House Pavus will even see pointy ears, if they come out all glowy and casting chain lightning at the servants if diapers are not changed on time; there is also the option of a small surgical intervention to make ears flat, thus promoting them to the master race…'

'Dorian!' she exclaimed, feeling amused and annoyed at the same time, and trying to lift herself on her elbow. The room spun, all things shifted in and out of colour, and she fell back, lost in the fade-less, dreamless dark.

'…how much blood did she use?' she heard, as through a thick door.

Lexi's voice was present, and close.

'About a pint, Lexi. Maker, I saw her bleeding about a pint, she should not…'

'Look at the size of her, Dorian, she weighs only a pint if soaking wet already. Veldrin.' Lexi called, 'Veldrin, come back. Vel, come back!'

She felt a slap and her teeth clattered.

She wanted to say she was sorry, she wanted to say she was awake, but her lips would not move, and her eyelids simply fluttered. She heard Lexi, gentle, humorous Lexi ordering Dorian to lock the door in a commanding bark.

She heard a swift swish and strangle, she heard a blade's swift draw too, but it was not her arm the blade found blood in.

Veldrin felt warm and safe.

 _Not you too, Lexi,_ she thought she heard Dorian say, before she fell asleep.

* * *

Hey there, sorry for the fast posting, readers and commentators, all – I did really need to get the chapter last night out of the way, because it did logically belong to the previous two scenes, and it was too short for a weekly installment.

As a bit of a warning, this story does contain some characters from the DA comics series (we'll have one mentioned next chapter), and will refer to events depicted therein. I'll try my best not to spoil the action in the comics, but will clarify the characters in footnotes.

With that, I thank you for reading and commenting, and warn you that the next chapter will contain some lovemaking of the M kind.


	7. Of Love, Lust, Envy and all Demons

_But the High Priest of Beauty was sorely troubled,_

 _For he served only the Great Plans_

 _And would in no way of wisdom raise a servant of Silence_

 _Above himself or his God._

 **Silence 2:2**

* * *

'How long?' Dorian spat.

Lexi rolled his eyes.

'Less strop, more thank you would be in order here,' he growled back. 'And dare I suggest you keep your voice down?'

'Why?' the Magister exclaimed, throwing his arms up in annoyance. 'I seem to be the only person in this house tonight who thinks proper magic is…proper. Have I been asleep for a decade, and conventional studies have become _that_ passé? Am I that ridiculously out of step with fashion? Do I need to shop for new robes, preferably in crimson, so blood stains don't show, or will just getting a solid silver razor do?'

'You also need some sort of container, size varying by intended scale of effects…' Lexi shrugged, then, upon noticing Dorian's anger was not abating, sighed and let his shoulders slump. 'It is not that big of an issue, and I fail to comprehend why you are reacting this way. This was naught but tolerated practice…'

'How long, Lexi?'

'Since I was twelve, alright?' the Altus hissed. 'My instructors thought a pact with a dweller of the fade would help with my ascendance test, and it did. I've been doing it since always – and no, in twenty something years, I have not moved on to small animals, or large animals, or anything else but minor restorative spells. Blood of willing participant, remember?'

'Oh, I remember that part,' Dorian replied, beginning to pace rapidly. 'What I do not recall is you ever telling _me_ about it.'

Lexi let himself drop in the armchair before the long spent fire in the room they shared when he visited. 'The opportunity never arose…'

'In eight years, the opportunity simply did not…arise,' Dorian ironically shot, stopping and crossing his arms over his chest. 'Interesting. Fascinating, even.'

'Alright,' Lexi relented, pleadingly looking up. 'At first, when we…began, it was not the sort of thing you blurt out in a drunken or climactic haze with a person you have just met. It's still only tolerated, not officially legal - what we are is dangerous enough, and my family is far lower than yours.'

'Then,' he whispered, 'when things between us _changed,_ and you trusted me enough to tell me what occurred between you and your father, I was already past the point of no return – I did not know if you were; I desperately wanted you to like me, or at least feel more certain with the two of us before I chanced…'

'I am sorry,' he whispered, as Dorian crashed in the armchair opposite his. 'I love you so much, and I feel so far beneath you, for all of the things you have seen, all of the things that you have done, that…'

'I'm sorry too,' Dorian whispered, hiding his face in his hands. 'I'm sorry that I have never, for all of these years, made you feel like you could trust me.'

'It was never that, Amatus,' Lexi said, shaking his head and looking away. 'It is just…Look at us, Dorian,' he followed, softly. 'I am only two years younger than you, but I am still an Altus, while, I assure you, it's not only idiots who mention your name for Archon.'

'I inherited a seat.' The Magister briskly refuted.

'No, alright? No,' Lexi replied, in growing irritation at himself. 'If you had not inherited your father, you would have inherited Magister Alexius, via Felix, and we both know it. You managed to build support in the Magisterium from Orlais, long before you even had a seat, you married a woman who you care for and who cares for you, exactly as you are…You've defeated a would-be god and are now fighting another, while I still struggle to find a patron.'

Dorian lifted his glance to his lover's. 'I've already offered, Lexi.'

'And I have already said _no_ ,' the Altus replied. 'I adore you, and I don't want to be in your debt…No more than already am for _this_ ,' he said, angrily pressing his open palm on the chair's armrest. 'I never thought I could ever share what we share with anyone – sex in an alley, in a cupboard, when one cannot bear any longer - yes, but a friendship? a relationship? Love? A dream. With someone like you? Never, in all the ages,' he huffed, standing and turning away. 'You are sixty feet tall to me, Dorian…' Lexi whispered, swallowing dry. 'So when you, from that height, tell me blood magic is the resort of the weak mind, how am I to come out and tell you: Oh, I am a bit of a blood mage as well, you know, not a very good one, because I probably am not that great of a mage, in the first place?'

Dorian embraced him from behind then, yet he felt angry enough to fight it – not punish Dorian, but to punish himself. Still, the Magister held tight and Lexi's own struggles were weak.

'I should go,' Lexi nonetheless whispered. 'Long way to Quarinus, and I've disappointed you enough for one serving. I shall have to strive to outdo myself, next time…'

'Not like this, Lexi,' Dorian said. 'Please. Not like this,' he repeated, holding the other man's hand. 'I've had one of the heaviest days in my existence thus far, and that is saying quite a lot. Vel scared me, and I overreacted... I am grateful you stayed another day, and chanced…I am just grateful. I love you. Don't go yet.' The Magister said, bringing Lexi's fingers to his lips and causing him to simply _want_.

They did not need the firelight, not even candles, to find each other; the full moon was enough, while fingertips and lips knew all the paths to secret places. Dorian was far away, but not distant, and Lexi had many ways of calling him back and keeping him close, and finally, albeit briefly, keeping him prisoner to their shared pleasure…

On this eve, in the bed that the Altus loved to think of as _theirs,_ he denied Dorian all control over the rhythm and manner of their caresses – Dorian yielded to his wrists being affixed to the bedpost without even the jest resistance he sometimes posed. The sweet way in which he surrendered all but made Lexi forget his resolve of making the most of the few hours they still had left, and simply surrender to brief climax himself; he pulled himself from the brink though, as much as he withheld his captive lover from it – not one more failure, he told himself, as he moved his hips against Dorian's, no more shortcuts. No rush, no time, no menacing dawn.

It would be weeks, perhaps months before they could again be together, and although he tried not to think on it, not now, when the man that he loved was his in all ways, the thought of the long separation was present and tempered the fire, allowing him to feel, at every motion, how much he loved this man's body – his arms, his chest, his stomach, his sex, his thighs…The colour of his skin, the angle of his jaw, his lips, the pale green of his eyes…And in this view, above all others, Lexi wished to get lost, on this continent he wished to aimlessly wander, and did, for he made the tender toil last, bringing them close, as often as he pulled them back from the edge countless times, drowning in giving the other pleasure until Dorian's breath carried more of the spice of pleading that the sweetness of moans. Only then did his thrusts gain true, all but painful strength, only then did his stroking of the other's sex gain both pressure and speed – and he released Dorian knowing that his lover's soft shudder would bring him release too, a creeping, bitter sweet sense of satisfaction at the end of a dream.

Dorian spun between the sheets and kissed him, holding his hand to Lexis' cheek, and snaking his arm under the other man's pillow to pull him closer.

'Can we at least not spread rumours of an abduction by brigands?' Dorian asked, as they cooled, under the hot and wet sheets, which would only keep the cold shroud of sorrow of their bodies for a few moments longer. 'An extravagant ransom? Invent a tale of how you were held chained to a post in a dark cellar for a week?'

 _Don't go. I love you, please stay – another day, another night, another week…_

'I can indulge on the latter part,' the Magister added. 'You know, the best lie is a half truth…'

Lexi softly shook his head, and pressed his lips to Dorian's again, closing his eyes. 'You know I can't, Dorian,' he whispered. 'I wish…' Lexi began, but there were so many things he wished for that that speaking them all might have consumed even the painfully blanching darkness outside their window.

He turned his back on his lover, and pulled his arms around himself, snuggling to Dorian's chest. 'I wish I could help,' Lexi said. Dorian tightened his grip, and nodded, kissing him behind the ear – then, in hushed whispers, spoke of his day, since awakening to the southern Divine, through the meeting the dragon and the poisonous Nightingale…He spoke of treacherous gifts from Radonis, of old elven pathways and forgotten mirrors, of mere human boys who were vessels for old gods…Of how trapped he felt, in the tangled web of suspicion that was growing around him…and perhaps, Lexi thought, allowing his lover's silky voice to caress his hearing, and stifle him in warmth and comfort, it was truly all a jest, a lie, and inventive fairy tale that Dorian was telling him to lull him to sleep so he'd forget the approach of dawn and stay…He wished to do no more than fall asleep, and stay…

But it was not a fairy tale, it was not a romantic, childish trick – proof of it stood tall in the entry hallway of the mansion; further, incontestable proof slept soundly two doors down from their apartments, in the shape of an elven woman who had walked into the fade, and now walked through a field of thorns, in a dragon's dreams.

 _The elven woman who'd come further in three years of practicing blood magic than Lexi had in twenty._

He chased that particular thought away, in shame; Dorian would have hated it, so he hated it too. Like a rabid dog, the thought but circled and returned to bite in another way, leaving tooth marks which were not scars of envy, but jealousy that fed gluttonously on guilt.

'You do not sleep with Veldrin, do you, Dorian?' Lexi whispered.

The Magister lifted himself on an elbow, and beheld him from above. 'What foolishness is this?' he asked, frowning. 'Serious foolishness,' he remarked, a second later, taking note of the look of defeated sorrow in Lexi's eyes. 'I am flattered! Of course I do not sleep with Vel, Amatus – she is missing some parts I greatly enjoy, has some I don't particularly care for, and even if she had a ten-foot _pole_ , she would not touch _me_ with it if I begged her…'

'Because she is an elf, and you are…' Lexi began to ask.

'Because she is in utterly love with another person, Lexi,' Dorian scolded. 'You know, love? that inexplicable higher insanity that keeps even intelligent and otherwise frisky people in monogamous relationships? Or monoandrous, as the case may be.'

'Then, Dorian,' Lexis said, 'if I dare ask…'

'Anything, Amatus.' Dorian answered, setting his chin on his lover's shoulder.

'If I were to fall into the ways of a maleficarum, truly fall…If the Magisterium and Radonis would show you proof uncontestable of me having gone so far with the blood that I could not be brought back, If _I_ had done great and terrible things, if then, a sentence of tranquility was passed…'

Dorian briskly sat up. 'What are you asking, Lexi?'

'If it was me, and not this Solas, would you stand by and watch them make me tranquil, even if my guilt was beyond doubt?'

'That is not in the realm of the imaginable, Lexi,' Dorian said, clenching his teeth. 'A century of blood magic would not render you capable of the utter destruction…'

The Altus sighed. 'I feel so appreciated; I am about to burst with pride.'

'It _is_ a compliment,' Dorian said.

'It did not sound like one, Amatus.' Lexi bitterly answered. 'But…Let us not dwell on capability, for either harm or good, or anything else…Would _you_ let them me tranquil?'

'No,' Dorian whispered, in a shudder. 'I would kill you, first; I cannot imagine your body without your soul.'

'What makes you think Vel could live with it, then?' Lexi gently replied. 'Don't do it, Dorian. Don't speak of it to your southern associates. Don't even think of it…' He whispered, brushing a sweaty strand of hair off his lover's forehead. 'Don't do it to yourself, first and foremost – you abhor the rites of tranquility. If Vel had rendered Magister Alexius tranquil…'

'Vel and I would probably not be where we are, no,' Dorian answered, laying back down, putting his hand on Lexi's chest, and huddling close. 'But the political implications of this are going to be catastrophic, whichever way we decide to play it.'

'Have you spoken to Magistra Tilani1?' Lexi asked; he felt his lover shirk, slightly, and it was his turn to frown. 'Well, Dorian,' the Altus said, 'you are running in circles because everyone in your immediate circle of trust has ulterior motives, and everyone is, understandably, either overcautious or after a piece of this Solas creature…'

'You're not,' Dorian muttered.

'Give me two weeks and a bit more pillow-side chatter and I might want an ear and a pint of god-elf blood off him too,' Lexi joked.

'That was unworthy, Lexi,' The Magister sighed.

'It was, but I am simply warning you not to wall yourself in,' Lexi reiterated, in all seriousness. 'So far, it is just you and Veldrin against the world, with me doing endearing, but pointless cheering from the sidelines. If you do not go for the tranquility or capture and imprisonment route, you will need something more solid than my love and goodwill.'

'And you think Maevaris would provide that?' Dorian sighed.

'I think she could give you a different perspective on this, which both of you desperately need,' Lexi shrugged. 'She's not a militant for elven rights…'

'Truth be told, Amatus, I doubt anyone but Veldrin outright is,' Dorian replied. 'Not even I could truthfully claim those credentials.'

'Perhaps, but Maevaris is one of very few Magisters who will absolutely understand why keeping this elven god of yours alive, in whatever box, is a very tricky proposition. She's had her hands full with the Venatori here, while you were cavorting in the south – the last thing she wants is for their remaining agents to know they still have a shot of breaching into the fade.'

'The politically intelligent and moral way out of this, Amatus,' Lexi softly followed, 'is killing this man. It's what Radonis expects you to do. Do it.'

'What I _hope_ he expects us to do,' Dorian sighed. He turned on his back, and crossed his arms under his head. 'You still keep forgetting that…'

'I am not forgetting that, Dorian,' Lexi replied, a bit testily. 'I am just finding your – and Vel's, for that matter – faith in whatever the legend of Fen'Harel is, is oddly selective. You believe he created the veil; you believe he sealed away the rest of the Elvhen pantheon, but you do _not_ believe what you say the man himself stated over and over: that he _is_ mortal, just like the rest of the Evanuris.'

'You did not see Mythal,' the Magister groaned. 'They bloody are immortal _.'_

'No,' Lexi briskly refuted. 'It's true, I did not see Mythal, and I have not seen Fen'Harel, but the fact that they are still alive after all these millennia in no way implies they are immortal. It simply implies no one knows how to kill them, Dorian. Slight semantic difference, but one I find relevant.'

Dorian remained silent for a moment, and reached for Lexi's hand in blind. 'I love you,' he whispered, yet it was not the surrender Lexi was looking for – it was merely an attempt to escape the conversation. The Altus sighed.

'Alright,' he whispered. 'Let me then twist the semantics in a different way…Let us imagine a love affair so far beyond the confines of the real world that once one lover goes, the other's life comes to a grinding halt, too.'

Dorian turned his head to meet Lexi's glance and frowned deeply.

'I've made Veldrin…' he began to protest; his lover's incredulous smirk cut him off.

'You have made Veldrin happy, yes, and she has made you happy too, and I am more grateful for that than you know,' Lexi said, gently but sternly. 'But in marrying you, and coming _here,_ Vel has made the most powerful statement she could possibly make… No woman with love scars she thinks will heal would marry _you,_ Dorian, and not in Tevinter. What Veldrin has done here screams that she has absolutely no hope of ever mending: she'll not fall in love again, she'll never make love again, she will not have children, even if she might have once wanted them. She's cut herself off from any imaginable form of a normal future.'

'But she will build a legacy here that…'

'Maker, a _legacy_ ,' Lexi shot, 'I didn't realise I'd gone to bed with you and woken up next to your father, Dorian. I'm sorry, Amatus, but it is true.' He said, biting his lower lip. 'If I were you, I would not underestimate any feeling that leads to that amount of sacrifice. Even her enthusiasm for blood magic is a form of self-flagellation – every time she does it, she drifts further and further away from the fade, which is, conceivably, the only place where…'

'…she could still be with him, yes,' Dorian whispered.

'So then,' Lexi followed, 'let me move away from the politics of this all, and simply into a lover's heart. If this was you, Dorian, and I was faced with the prospect of knowing that you are locked away, conscious and tortured, in some cage, I would fight tooth and nail to free you; if anyone robbed you of yourself, I would stop at nothing to bring you back, I swear, regardless…'

The Magister tiredly rubbed his temples.

'Veldrin is remarkable in that she does not hate us all,' Lexi followed, 'but I would seriously consider how far that sentiment will stretch, if we erase or outright steal all that is left of Elvhen history, all while torturing the man she has sacrificed so much for.'

'Are you telling me not to trust Vel?' Dorian smirked.

'I'm telling you that all lovers' hearts have limits,' Lexi answered. 'And Dorian, perhaps the very last limits you wish to test are those of a militant wild elf with great spiritual affinity, unknown magical channeling capacity and very little left to lose. The dream walk she accomplished tonight is truly no small feat; the fact that she accomplished it with her blood alone is all but miraculous. You do not want to let Sister Nightingale or this Morrigan, or indeed, Radonis, to push Veldrin into agreeing with Fen'Harel in that this unchanging world must burn. Don't say…'

'…that Vel would _never_ ,' Dorian answered, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. 'I know, Lexi,' he said. 'If Solas had set off to expulse all humans from the Dales, I have no doubt in mind whose side Veldrin would be on. I would not even blame her.'

'Help her kill him, Amatus,' Lexi said, softly. 'Whether it will be a true death, or merely a return to the fade, it will free Vel or perhaps give her time to change _his_ mind. Give us _all_ time to change his mind – that too is a form of removing intent.'

The dread, blood-red light of dawn cruelly grabbed across their pillows. 'I have to go,' Lexi whispered; Dorian grasped his hand tight enough for the hold to be painful – they kissed, in a lingering, bitter-sweet and unspoken goodbye before the Altus tore himself away.

'I love you, Dorian,' he said, standing in the doorway and looking back on their bed. He clasped the doorsill so tightly that his fingers turned white.

'I know,' Dorian said, and Lexi turned, and left, one reluctant step after the other, not one easier than the previous one – a silent, injured shadow gliding along secret staircases.

Why saying goodbye to Dorian always felt so final, Lexi did not know. They always made plans for the next time they would meet – the plans always came to pass; they wrote and spoke through their crystal, yet, each and every time felt the last, and it took all of Lexi's self restraint to keep tears from stinging at the corners of his eyes as he ascended into the already waiting carriage.

Terrible, long weeks awaited him in Quarinus, and the one secret he still kept from Dorian would not remain a secret for very much longer, as women's bellies only took so few short weeks to grow round and heavy.

 _I am a wretched coward,_ Alexius Hadrian thought, burying his face in his hands, and not noticing that the carriage he was in was taking one wrong turn after the other.

* * *

Magister Cassius kicked the puppy.

Well, _puppy_ was a way of saying. The bulky cross between a cow and a wolf was, according to its proudly Ferelden adorned pedigree scroll, five weeks old, but it already weighed a solid forty pounds. Wisdom would therefore have pointed that kicking the blasted thing was not an advisable course of action, as Cassius felt he'd break his ankle before he could sway the animal from chewing on his chair's legs. Or on the bookcase. Or on his priceless Rivain carpet – some small parts of which the Mabari had not yet peed on.

And it still peed like a bitch, Cassius thought, in utter disgust. His own hunt master had assured him that once the dog came of age, and his testicles descended, he'd start lifting his leg to take a piss, and then _nothing_ would be safe: not his rosewood desk, not the books in the bookcase, not his own robes, nothing.

For what was even worse, the Mabari seemed to grasp exactly how unwanted it was, so, aside peeing far more than any intake of fluid might have physically justified, it also shat all over and then retired into a corner, growling with its needle-like milk teeth on full display.

'I'll make a carpet of you, beast!' Cassius shouted; the dog barked loud enough to make the windows rattle. 'Skin you and salt you on both sides! Just you wait!' the Magister menaced.

The dog's ears perked, and it tilted its head to the side listening for something out of the human's hearing range. It left its corner and positioned itself in front of the door, feet wide apart and head lowered. The growl it let out seemed to make the floor shake – if ever an earthquake might have had a forewarning noise…

This, at least, Cassius found soothing; he retreated behind his desk, and sat, taking great care to balance his chair off the leg the dog had weakened. It took some effort, but he'd be damned if he'd lose one further slither of dignity.

The man who opened the door wasted no time on the dog, and taught Cassius a valuable lesson on how the beast was to be handled – once he'd stepped in, the early morning visitor struck the Mabari across the snout with a horse crop. When the dog did not immediately back away, he did so again, twice, in rapid succession, drawing blood from the Mabari's nose; it whinnied and backed away in its corner.

'Truffle's pretty much the only place where you can hurt'em,' the newcomer explained in a thick and jarring Fereldan accent, wiping the horse crop of blood on his breeches. 'Get!' he shouted, causing the animal to curl and make itself small.

'Good to know,' Cassius said, smiling. ' _Very_ good to know.'

He paused, taking satisfaction in watching the dog lick its wounded nose.

'Can it bleed to death that way?' he casually asked.

'Na,' the other man responded. 'But it'll teach him a manner.'

Without ceremony, the newcomer discarded his horse crop on the already stained carpet, and laid on the delicate, Orlesian ottoman across the room from Cassius's desk, propping his muddy boots on its elaborately carved arm rest, and not minding the blood traces he left on the embroidered silk.

'You have what I asked you to bring,' Cassius said.

'Sniveling, naked, bound and gagged,' the other man confirmed. 'I do wonder, Tevinter…who's the deviant to you? The one who pumps the arse or the one being pumped in the arse?'

'Both,' the Magister said, sweetly, not bothering to disguise the glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

The fact that Radonis had not kept his word in allowing him further time for investigation had infuriated Cassius to no end; he'd spent the best part of the previous eve in such a rage that his house slaves had not dared enter his apartments, and left his dinner in front of the door. This too had proven a terrible mistake for the dog, who was too young to be allowed to mingle with Cassius' own hunting hounds in the kennels had helped himself to half a pork leg and, the magister could swear, a carafe of wine.

Still, the pacing and cursing had not proven entirely useless, for, as he continuously rehashed his former master's words in his mind, Cassius had come to understand that of the stack of cards Radonis held, he'd truly dealt his student an ace, in the form of sound advice. He could not infiltrate House Pavus, that much was true, but it was not needed. Why fight the impossible odds of the new elven Andraste, when, just outside the gates of House Pavus opportunity waited, weak, nameless and frail, and ready to be _penetrated…_ in more ways than one.

Cassius chuckled out loud at his own thoughts.

'Naked, bound and gagged,' he repeated, feeling the creeping warmth of triumph.

'Want me to bring him up?' the Fereldan asked.

'No,' Cassius said. 'Radonis gave me three days to inform him – I have two left. Use one of them to tenderise Altus Hadrian, and make his present plight...clear. I am sure I need not explain how you should endeavour. Leave the questioning to me…and get your filthy boots off my couch. I already have one Ferelden dog too many.'

The other man smirked, but picked himself off the couch in one fluid motion; to Magister Cassius' great displeasure, he did not hurry to leave.

'To the small matter of payment, then,' he said, grinning from ear to ear, and revealing yellowing teeth that hinted at foul breath.

'My secretary will handle you,' Cassius replied, finding that he could imagine the stench of the other man's mouth at six paces. As if sensing the Tevinter's thoughts, the kidnapper took a wide stride towards the desk.

'What is it?' he asked, his grin widening to such an extent that the Magister could see he was missing a canine. 'Don't wanna leave your prints on the coin?'

'Handling money is vulgar,' Cassius snarled. 'Go about your business, and be thorough. When I meet Hadrian, I hope to find him in a very talkative mood. Perhaps,' he added, feeling pleased of his sudden idea, 'with a few less teeth…'

 _Maybe Pavus will actually thank me for that one,_ Cassius dreamily thought.

'As you wish, Tevinter,' the Fereldan man agreeably said, finally turning to leave. 'Tho',' he threw in over his shoulder, 'you might not wish him that horribly scarred, in my professional opinion. Ya know, new scars cover old scars…'

'Old scars?' Cassius inquired, arching an eyebrow.

'Strikes me like your pretty caged song bird has some very fresh blood-letting scars on both his forearms. Thought it might interest you to keep those obvious…'

'How extensive?'

'I don't know, Tevinter, your ways are filthy to me. Don't look like he revived a horse, but I doubt it matters.'

Cassius threw his head back and laughed, congratulating himself on his choice of agent, and considering that, perhaps he'd struck gold in both directions here. It was not only what Alexius Hadrian would gracefully share, after experiencing the hospitality of the mansion's cellars; it was also what Dorian Pavus himself might share, to keep his lover from the templars.

He quickly ran the Liberalum though his mind, just to assure himself that the Hadrian line was short, and no unexpected protectors would arise – he could find none, off the top of his head and, as ancient Tevinter wisdom informed, the smaller the name, the larger the crime.

'That just earned you another stack of coin,' he said. 'See yourself out.'

The Fereldan man smacked his lips in anticipation, and headed for the door – the dog growled at him, but did not lounge.

'Leave me the horse crop,' Cassius suddenly remembered. 'You'll find everything you need in the cellar, and,' he ended, throwing a murderous glance in the Mabari's direction, 'I have a manner or two to teach as well.'

* * *

1 Maevaris Tilani is a member of the Magisterium that the Inquisition can support from afar in one of Dorian's first War Table missions in Inquisition. The lady (who is transgender) performs the top of all political and economical ploys to get her Magisterial seat - if gentle, camp, but still very male Dorian is in trouble, imagine what it must be like for this lady - and it is not only the Inquisition who helps her. I won't say more (read the comics, they are a couple of bucks each and not bad writing and visually beautiful), except that she is a close friend of Varric's, a powerful mage, very closely aligned to Dorian's vision of what the Imperium should be, and a genuinely good person. Also, she's hot. And seductive. Highly seductive. Alistair has to be warned off her in the comics…Not your type, Ali, NOT YOUR TYPE! Poor Varric warns.

* * *

Thank you for reading wish you would comment more,

Cheers, Abstract.


	8. Of remembering one's fears

_But the designs of Beauty's High Priest demanded more._

 _No small sacrifice would open the gate._

 _And so the High Priest of Silence went forth again._

 **Silence 1:11; 1-3.**

* * *

'You two truly look handsome together,' Leliana remarked, glancing up at the portrait of Dorian and Veldrin which reigned above the mantle piece in the main library. Veldrin looked up and smiled, falsely and brightly.

'Dorian is a man of great aesthetic flair,' Vel said.

 _And one of uncompromising audacity_ , Leliana thought to answer, but narrowed her eyes and remained silent.

The painter had not omitted Veldrin's _vallaslin_ , but he had tamed their colour from deep red to dull ochre. All the colour he'd spared had gone into the glow of Veldrin's eyes, which were unnaturally bright.

Unwillingly, Leliana contrasted the painting with Marquise Briala's first official portrait in Halamshiral. Of course, neither the city elf nor her illustrious lover had gone as far as to have their likeness taken together, so Briala had posed alone, her dress but a shade lighter than the Orlesian colours, and so covered in sapphires and amethists that it was fortunate that she gracefully leaned her hand upon the gilded frame of an empty velvet seat, adorned with a lion's head, for else, she might have toppled over. Her royal lover may have been absent, but the Orlesian throne was not, and the symbolism of grasping ambition had not been wasted on many.

 _Here,_ the Dowager had caustically remarked upon the grand unveiling, _stands a woman who'd chop off the tips of her ears if they did not fit under her crown…excuse me, hat._

Veldrin, on the other hand, sat like one who'd had learned how to play the game, very fast, to very different steps, and to very different music.

Some of the music, Leliana considered, had certainly been composed by Dorian Pavus, yet Veldrin had added her own notes, with far less ostentation but to far greater effect than Briala. The materials of Veldrin's clothes were pure Tevinter, neither modest nor striking – deep dark velvet, the two ascending dragons of the Imperium's banner embroidered in heavy silver thread on the left side of the dress, along her thigh and over her shoulder…one of them, Leliana noted actually positioned in such a way that it appeared to be resting its head on Veldrin's left breast.

 _Lovely touch. Probably Dorian's._

The cut of the dress was unmistakably one of a mage's ceremonial robe, with tiny, all but unnoticeable rebellious departures from the norm – there was no corset, and there was no sign of the hip-embellishing understructure still so adored in the Imperium and Orlais alike. Tevinter cloth, perhaps, but Dalish cut discrete enough not to be offensive, yet in no way disguised.

Vel's vallaslin may have been dulled, but her impeccably fashionable braid left her pointy ears on full, unashamed display. For what was even better, the speared sun which was the symbol of the Northern Chantry rose around her hair and ears like an aurora, and it took an onlooker of some great attention to realise that the symbol was not the regular, solid adornment of imperial grand dames, but rather embroidered on her husband's tunic, creating an attentive trompe l'oeil…The picture of a woman that straddled two worlds, and was effortlessly at home in both – a creature so at ease with her station that she neither felt the need to humbly comply, nor ostentatiously challenge.

'A bit out of your element with Dalish shoes, or the lack thereof, Leliana?' Veldrin asked, in mock solicitude.

Caught in odd and meandering thoughts, Leliana spun on herself, yet found not one, but two pairs of golden eyes set upon her; the sensation of something amiss that she'd sought to chase by analysing the portrait grew about her once more, the discrete miasma of a poisonous flower.

'It is not only shoes that Sister Nightingale is out of her element with, I wager.' Morrigan off handedly agreed, with far more daring than her position might have justified.

For all the time that she had spent around the practitioners of the arcane, Leliana herself was none the wiser in their arts, so, reluctantly, she'd considered that Morrigan and Veldrin were best placed to keep each other in check, and neither was likely to make questionable alterations to the eluvian, or take unexpected trips to the Crossroads while the other was watching.

Or at least so Leliana had hoped.

She'd expected subdued tension, yet the witch's manner around Veldrin was just short of openly rude. Not out of scholarly superiority, as it had been before the secrets of Mythal's temple had come to light, but rather…rather the attitude of one who knew an opponent's secret and could use it to keep them in check.

An odd approach for one who was a prisoner in all but name, and even stranger when considered that Veldrin and Dorian were the only two who had manifested any sort of sympathy for Kieran…

For her part, Veldrin had paid the eluvian superficial attention at best: aside for a few reparation suggestions of a purely mechanical or aesthetic nature, she'd barely approached the thing, while Morrigan's sly attempts at irony had left the elf utterly untouched.

A lot seemed to leave Veldrin untouched.

For one who had been so adamant on keeping their plans as secret from Radonis as possible just the day before, Veldrin appeared to have undergone a complete change of mind, and, since morning, had comprised a startlingly mundane list of materials she deemed necessary for the eluvian's restoration, and dispatched them to the Archon's offices in the Magisterium with the air of a spoiled kept woman sending in the grocery list for a banquet.

Nothing of great import, of course – a few vials of mercury, some carefully cut pieces of a special parasitic wood that never stopped growing and would have to be kept well away from any other piece of furniture in the house, some focus gems, several types of poison and two bottles of the brandy that had been served at Cassandra's welcome reception…all in all, nothing Leliana assumed could not be found at the nearest magical emporium.

The entire exaggerated familiarity of the thing, Leliana unpleasantly thought, could only have been designed for one specific reason, and that was to show that Veldrin Lavellan was queen of her domain, here, with far higher protection than that of her husband and patron alone.

A warning, of course, Leliana thought, but whether it was intended at herself or Morrigan, she could not guess, and she did not like being left guessing.

Once more she congratulated herself on having verified the mirror's functionality back in Orlais, and felt pleased that Dorian and Veldrin had not kept the fact that the mirror actually worked a secret from the Archon. Given the Magisterium's friendly solicitude, she had no doubt that she could not have kept scores of Magisters from swarming all over the object, with naught but _helpfulness_ in mind.

The question of its re-introduction to the Crossroads remained a thorny one, however, and Morrigan assured that such a thing could only be attempted once the eluvian was placed in its final position, a fact that Leliana herself could not verify – not without spreading word of its existence far further than she was willing to let it travel. She'd not had the feeling that she could trust either Fiona or Vivienne, though she was intimately convinced that the latter would have assisted against Solas with enthusiasm bordering on glee; the problem, of course, was the fact that it was impossible to know how far Solas had infiltrated the Circles of Magi and the College of Enchanters, and that he need not even had done so at a high level. A tranquil archivist or a scribe might have been sufficient to spread the knowledge that Leliana's crows were looking into the Crossroads, while she had been keen to convince any attentive onlooker that she was still waging the long lost battle of finding Theadas' missing elves.

''Tis so awkward to chaperone when one is not even certain of what _naughty_ might mean,' Morrigan added, at length, letting Leliana know that her discomfort was visible.

'I expect some cooperation,' the Nightingale replied, smiling thinly.

'It must also be awkward not to know how to define cooperation,' Veldrin said, looking up from her book – though it was not in Leliana's nature, she felt oddly irritated. Not only by the fact that she now felt assured that the witch of the wilds and the elf had had some form of communication she was unaware of, but by the fact that the massive tome in Vel's arms was written in Tevene, and the elf was taking abundant notes in the same language, one that Leliana did not understand.

'What is that?' she queried, gesturing towards the elf's parchments.

' _Ars Publicum Oratiae,'_ Veldrin answered, showing Leliana the book's binding. 'Art of public speaking,' she chuckled. 'I am trying to cheat my way through a debate in the Publicanium1 in about an hour.'

'You are going nowhere,' Leliana said, dryly; the elf's smile grew as wide as a half moon.

'I am not? I wish someone had informed me of that before I craftily stole all these quotes.' Veldrin said. 'Not to mention informing the Publicanium itself; I think we shall have to agree to disagree, Leliana.'

'Under the circumstances, Veldrin…' Leliana began.

'Under the circumstances, I find that sudden cancellations of speaking engagements arranged two months in advance would look rather suspicious to the many agents of Fen'Harel you assure me are milling about,' the elf dryly interrupted. 'I did not see you summoning _circumstances_ to prevent Dorian from going to his shouting match in the Upper Senate, I'm certainly attending mine…After all, you have made it clear that I am not needed for your endeavors with…'

She carelessly gestured towards Morrigan and the eluvian.

'I do not think this wise,' Leliana insisted – it was enough that she could not make sense of Veldrin while she had her under her nose. The last thing she wanted was for the elf to be wandering Maker knew where, in the company of Maker knew who.

The monster that was the Tevinter Senate might have been uncontrollable by sheer size, and though Sister Nightingale would very much have liked for her agents to be gliding through its corridors as well, her tacit tolerance accord with the Magisterium's own intelligence placed the Senate strictly off limits. The arrangement was too fresh for Leliana to attempt to immediately breach it. A few more months, would, of course, change things, yet for now…She could only have Veldrin followed to the gates, and no further.

'I do not like this, Veldrin,' Leliana said. 'You know all too well…'

'That I am in _my_ house and in _my_ city? Yes, of course,' the elf replied, smiling. 'That I shall have to wash my mouth out with soap after I make an impassioned plea for Arl Teagan and the Ferelden preliminary accords? Definitely.'

'Is that not already before the Archon and the Divines?' Sister Nightingale smirked. 'This debate of yours seems slightly tardy.'

'Eeeh,' Veldrin sighed, closing her book and beginning to carefully roll up her parchments. 'If we had to truly pass every piece of legislation through the Senate, we'd still be debating whether the Fourth Blight actually happened. This is not Orlais, Leliana,' she added, standing up, and sounding oddly earnest. 'The Senate does not weigh as much as the Council of Heralds…'

'Then why bother involving Senate at all?' Leliana asked, frowning.

'Because depriving people of control is one thing.' Veldrin shrugged. 'It's depriving them of the _illusion_ of control that sparks riots – sooo…How we proceed is that Radonis decides which way to go, we have the debates, and when it comes to announcing his decision, he takes care to spice his announcement with many of the arguments brought on the Senate floor that were favourable to his cause and a few that were against it. This makes the Senate feel important and noticed, winners triumphant, losers feeling as if they actually had a chance.'

'Peace and prosperity for all,' Morrigan snarled.

'I would not go that far,' Veldrin answered, her smile turning sad. 'Still beats the ancient practice of assuring voting majority by assassinating the minority like in the fine days of Tidarion2. So let's be happy for small blessings and wish old friends good luck,' she ended, with a wink. 'I'll be back by supper, try not to kill each other in the meanwhile. Ring for refreshments as needed!'

She gracefully waved her fingers and left, book and parchments held tightly under her arm; Leliana refrained from biting her lower lip, but her frustration must have been awfully obvious, for Morrigan chuckled.

'A learning opportunity as no other,' the witch remarked. 'What pleasure you must feel at the chance of trying to regain control over what was once _your_ creature.'

'Watch how you speak, Morrigan,' Leliana replied.

'As suits your pleasure,' the witch shrugged. 'I was merely lost in idle wondering of whether you are proud of your Inquisitor, or starting to be just a bit fearful.'

Leliana sat on the couch Veldrin had just left, and looked up to Morrigan. 'Why would I be fearful, Morrigan?' she lightly asked. 'She remains my ally, you remain my hostage.'

She had hoped the words would steal Morrigan's unexpected amusement, but they did not.

'Oh, of course she still appears to be your ally and I am still regrettably your hostage; 'tis just amusing to note how far beyond you your little puppet has grown, and how little note you take of it – no more.'

'Enlighten me,' Leliana said, smiling wide.

'Let me see my son,' Morrigan responded.

'If you tell me something worthy of note, perhaps you shall see him, in Weisshaupt, after the end,' the Nightingale said. 'Why should I be fearful of Veldrin, Morrigan?'

The witch looked to the side, and, for a mere moment, Leliana thought she would break, yet, after a long moment of consideration, she too sat down, her hands crossed in her lap.

''Tis a sad heart that you have, Sister Nightingale,' the witch spoke, with no rush. 'Unavoidable, one presumes, for one who has been as mistreated and used as you have been…Your bait is too good to be true, so not truly a bait…yet, I shall tell you one reason, and one alone of why you should fear this thorn that you have killed, blackmailed and tortured for. But one.'

 _Yet, not the true one,_ Leliana thought, feeling that, indeed, a thorn was growing in her heart. The thing Morrigan would give her now would be as menial as her promise had been transparent – she was amazed.

'Your Inquisitor knows how to make her own eluvian, Sister Nightingale,' Morrigan said, a smile crookedly lifting the left side of her lips. 'You have read her demands to Radonis, but understood nothing of them; your mind, as life has built it, brick upon brick, cannot depart from its foundations, nor rise to any other height than the one it was destined for.'

'You lie, Morrigan,' Leliana hissed; the thorn pierced and ripped and tore at her chest.

'No – 'tis just that you are blind and played. This mirror needs nothing of what she asked for. A new one, however…The poisons she asks for are to keep her mirror locked to anyone who does not have the antidote; the mercury to bring life to dull glass; the ever growing wood, the one immortal thing mankind, in its rampage of destruction, could neither alter nor eradicate, to keep the mirror feeding on itself.'

'The brandy,' Morrigan ended, now fully grinning, 'to celebrate its completion.'

'If it were that easy, witch,' Leliana hissed, darting to her feet, 'then all might…'

'Not all have your Inquisitor's channeling power, and not all have Dorian Pavus' lineage, voiceless Nightingale. Not all could manage it, but they may, or she may succeed alone, and then what you once owned will own you, and I shall dance.'

'But why would she even need a second eluvian?' Leliana asked, looking away in fear of the answer she already knew.

'Because _you_ are watching this one, obviously,' Morrigan replied, smiling sweetly. 'And then, Leliana, you are left in the unenviable position of wondering for whose benefit she plans to build it – for her lover's, or for Radonis'. Interesting conundrum.'

Leliana looked away and sighed, oddly wishing that Morrigan had kept her knowledge to herself, for it had just rendered the fact that she could watch neither Dorian nor Veldrin just that more jarring. Both, she knew, kept chambers in the Senate, and whatever was in those chambers was hidden to her eyes. Perhaps, the Nightingale thought, her off the cuff remark about wolf pelts had been a terrible mistake, and she dearly wished she could have taken the words back, and revised her attitude. There was, of course, no certainty that Veldrin might not have thought herself under suspicion, but Leliana's manifest mistrust had placed them at open odds, on a battlefield that was far from level.

She unwillingly glanced back up at the portrait, taking in not its beauty, but its menacing undertones.

 _Solas, of course…But could it truly be possible that Veldrin was Radonis' creature?_

It would have explained much…The Veldrin who'd once lifted the Inquisitor's sword had not been power hungry, and when she had been handed power, she had used it wisely. Yet, bearing power with grace did not imply that one would be equally graceful in losing it – the journey from being a kingmaker to being a crippled no one had been swift in Veldrin's case, and it was obvious that Tevinter was giving her the station that Southern Thaedas had been only too relieved to see her relinquish.

While Cassandra was hopelessly optimistic, and regarded Dorian and Veldrin's positioning in the magocracy as a herald of many good things to come, Leliana was far more cautious. It was true, Radonis had not been the most aggressive of Tevinter Archons, and during the crisis caused by the breach the Magisterium had at least not hindered, yet…Radonis was definitely a passionate player of the game – intercepting the eluvian and then simply giving it back had been a masterfully played card.

It also, however, denoted that Radonis did not fear Fen'Harel's agents as much as he should have…or, if Morrigan's suppositions were correct, he had just performed a grand bait and switch: with the eyes of Fen'Harel's spies firmly set on the Pavus mansion, he'd have his two pets labouring on giving _him_ access to the Crossroads. To what end, though…

'I need eyes in that Senate,' she muttered, mostly to herself.

Morrigan heard her, and laughed, in sweet chuckles.

'So you, do, Nightingale, so you do.'

* * *

See you again next week ^^ Thank you for reading and commenting, and excuse our varying chant referencing – they are different on the DA Wikia than in the lore books.

* * *

1 The Publicanium is the inferior house of the Tevinter Senate.

2 Ruled from -692 Ancient to -640 Ancient, and notable for being the first Archon of descending from non-magic parents. His was not a peaceful reign, in either beginning, tenure or aftermath.


	9. The Screen Behind the Mirror

_And yet, the fire in the Conductor's heart ignited_

 _Within the Architect a terrible flame._

 _And so he turned all the lesser priests and acolytes from the Temple of Beauty_

 _To beseech counsel from his god._

 **Silence 1:8, 1-4**

* * *

'Mae?' Veldrin called, entering Magistra Tilani's Senate chambers uninvited, and only knocking once she was already in the room.

'Second, darling!' Maevaris Tilani1 called, from somewhere in her private library. 'Looking for…something…In fact, want to come in here, so we don't have to shout?'

'Sure,' Veldrin answered, closing the door, and following the sound of Maevaris' voice into the back room. 'Mythal'enaste2! you _are_ looking!' she gasped, once she laid eyes on the terrible disorder of books and parchments. 'It looks like a hurricane has been through!'

Maevaris emerged from behind a bookcase, waved briefly in greeting, and disappeared again. 'It always looks like this, doll,' she said, with a light chuckle. 'Dorian was by earlier, and almost had a fit, as if he didn't know my archiving method is…erm, non-linear.'

'You can say that again,' Veldrin replied, still looking about herself in amazement. 'What are you looking for?'

'De Utilitas Somnaboriae3, by I…don't remember who,' Maevaris answered. 'In fact, maybe I archived it under 'I don't remember'…Hold on', she enthusiastically said, once more emerging from behind the bookcase, and passing by Veldrin to head for a different one. She blew the elf an air kiss, then started pulling out one book after the other, looking to their bindings then carelessly flinging them to the floor.

'No wonder Dorian had a fit,' Vel exclaimed, dropping to her knees and instinctively starting to stack the books that Mae was tossing. 'You are giving _me_ heartburn…You put Genitivi under 'I don't remember'?' she chuckled, noting one of the authors.

'Eh, he's not that memorable,' the human replied. ' I am far more partial to Phillam! A bard; more drama, sweetness…And…grand success!' she exclaimed a second later. 'There you go,' she ended, victoriously placing a tome on top of Veldrin's pile. 'Leave the others, some unfortunate will put them back later.'

'You were looking for this to give it to _me_?' Veldrin asked, frowning.

'Or Dorian, whichever one of you came by first,' Maevaris shrugged, extending her hand to help Veldrin to her feet. She was still smiling, but her eyes were oddly clouded. 'Hope it's not drivel,' she said, with a distinct apologetic undertone. 'It most likely is.'

'Thank you,' Veldrin said, straightening her robes and holding the book to her chest.

It was, the elf thought, always a pleasure to deal with Maevaris; she might have looked as if she was perpetually distracted, but she was probably one of the most pragmatic and level headed people Veldrin had ever had the pleasure of encountering. It was also, as always, a pleasure to note how alike she and Dorian thought; they'd not had time to speak in the morning, as, under Lexi's spell Veldrin had slept long and deep, and he'd already gone by the time she'd awoken. Still, he'd obviously had the same idea that Vel herself had, and gone to speak to Maevaris.

She followed the human back into the main study, feeling oddly grateful to be away from the chaos of the library.

Maevaris sat behind her desk, propping her endless, flawless and bare legs on the desk in obvious self satisfaction, and waved for Vel to take a seat as well.

'Everyone thinks that having an 'I don't remember' section is a clear sign of insanity. That shows them!' she said, ringing for refreshments – tea, Veldrin feared – with a lot more energy than the gesture required; somewhere in the gigantic underbelly of the Senate building, a little bell was probably ringing hysterically, and driving some unfortunate server hysterical as well.

'You did well in Publicanium,' Maevaris said, without more preamble.

'If by that you mean no one criticised my Tevene,' Veldrin sighed, 'then perhaps, but otherwise…Did you come and watch?'

'Open session,' Maevaris shrugged. 'I did. Glad you didn't come to watch me and Dorian in the upper chamber, though. We got mauled.'

The elf sighed. 'Regular mauling or…?'

'Regular,' the human answered, making the source of the sadness in her blue eyes clear. 'How Dorian is married to a southerner elf and how I am a man living as a woman and was almost married to a dwarf – so obviously, the Lucerni care nothing for Tevinter's legacy, which is why we are so lightly giving away Ferelden, which is ours, by all rights...Nothing of substance, just low personal insults. It's like the entire Senate slept though the past two ages, I swear.'

Veldrin nodded. 'Did Radonis' stance not help?'

'Well,' Mae smirked, 'he didn't mean to help us – he meant for us to help him. The fact that the faction that supports his position got essentially tarred and feathered just shows…'

'…how independent of his will the process is, yes,' Vel said, cranking her nose. 'I'm sorry,' she earnestly said.

'Don't be,' the Magistra answered, with a tired, but sincere smile. 'Let them insult Dorian because of you – he stopped caring long ago, if he ever actually did care, and if the only argument against our position is the fact that he has an unsuitable wife, then it's obvious they have no other argument. _You_ did not get racially insulted, and the other speakers were incensed enough by what you were saying to not mock your accent. Your diphthongs are still too soft, but other than that…In any event, by my brief talk to Dorian, you have other things you need to worry about than your pronunciation in Tevene.' Maevaris said.

Vel looked down to the book in her lap. 'Life should not stop just because…'

'The man you once loved is threatening to destroy the entire world as we know it? The people whom you regarded as friends are treating you as an enemy all of a sudden?' Maevaris helpfully prompted.

'Yes,' Veldrin nodded. 'How much did Dorian actually tell you?'

'As much as he thinks I need to know, I am sure,' the Magistra said. 'It was comprehensive enough though, which is why I was looking into the Somnaborium for you.'

The elf rubbed her eyes. 'I am grateful and it is a good idea, but I think these are best left alone. We've seen what one could do, perhaps…'

Maevaris shrugged. 'Look, Vel, I find it eerie how you and Dorian sound like twins, which you can't possibly be. He said exactly the same thing, and I will tell you exactly what I told him – keeping ourselves willfully ignorant of the enemy's weapons is irresponsible. If I were you, I would actually ask this rude spymistress to bring me one of the veil controlling artefacts as well…Where's that lazy elf with the tea?' she asked, in an irritated tone. 'Oh,' Mae said, catching herself just a moment too late. 'Sorry.'

'I don't actually like tea,' Veldrin said, smiling sadly.

'You know what I mean,' Maevaris said. 'I'm sorry, it just gets away from me sometimes.'

She straightened and leaned her elbows on the desk – unwillingly, Veldrin smiled, for Maevaris Tilani was actually…strikingly beautiful, and a pleasure to behold, with her angel's halo of blonde hair and wide, blue eyes; if the elf had had a choice, she'd probably replace every depiction of Andraste with Maevaris' face and body. It would not have made the Chant more truthful. It would simply have made the human temples tolerable.

'I am more grateful than you can imagine that you and Dorian chose to trust me with this knowledge, and with your troubles.' The Magistra said. 'This book I found for you, it is of the Steel Age4, it's written in new Tevene, so it will likely not be of much help. Too recent to actually be relevant, but I will keep searching. And, in the meanwhile, I am glad you both know that you are not as alone as you feel. Or well,' she corrected, 'how you probably feel.'

A hasty and frantic elven slave entered, carrying a tea tray and making babbling excuses – the sessions in both houses had left many Magisters and Altus with dry tongues, so there had been a rush of ringing bells; he, of course, would have gladly serviced the Magistra Tilani _first,_ it was simply that the kitchen master would not see reason…

'Take it back!' Maevaris bitingly ordered. 'The lady Pavus does not like tea.'

'Mae, please, no, not this way,' Veldrin said, softly. 'Ar abelas, lethallin,' she said, rising to take the trey from the server's trembling hands. 'Ar abelas, I will love _this_ tea. I am grateful that you made it and brought it,' she followed, setting the trey down on the corner of Maevaris' desk.

The elven male looked at her blankly for a stunted heartbeat, then set his terrified and confused glance upon the power in the room, clearly not knowing what to do with himself.

'I don't think he speaks elven, Veldrin,' Maevaris said, kindly. 'Oh Maker, I was just being horrible again…It is alright,' she said to the slave, in Tevene. 'We'll take the tea – it's what I rang for, anyway. Thank you.'

'The Magistra Tilani does not wish for this to be taken away, then?'

'No,' Maevaris said. 'We will have the tea and we are grateful for your service…what is your name?'

'Whatever the Magistra pleases to call me is my name.' the slave responded with practiced speed.

'I shall call you patience, and ring for you specifically next time' Maevaris said. 'Thank you.'

The man departed, feeling grateful; the Magistra took one glance at her friend's stony countenance, and lowered her head in shame.

'It gets away from me _a lot,'_ she sighed. 'I'm sorry, it's just…'

'Innate,' Veldrin said, dryly.

'Yes, but also ridiculous – here I was trying to say I am grateful for your friendship and trust, and then I go and snap at…'

'An elf?' Veldrin bitterly chuckled. 'That man was no Elvhen. He merely looked like one.'

She shuddered at her own words; that was, she thought exactly what…She shook her head to chase the thought.

Maevaris sighed. 'Would it help if I said I might have acted the same way if he had been human?'

'Not much,' Vel answered with a strained smile. 'But let us not go there, my friend; slavery and the Imperium are too deeply intertwined for either of us to try to disentangle them, and, to return to our halla, so to speak,' she grinned, 'every attempt at doing so in the past has led to the political suicide of anyone considering it. We are not in a position to even approach that subject publically, so there is no point in us privately discussing it.'

Mae narrowed her eyes, and smiled wryly. 'That was _almost_ an insult, was it not?'

The elf smiled, too. 'Almost,' she said.

'But see,' the Magistra answered, shaking her head, 'this is precisely why I am happy that you came by, and I am glad to give _you_ the book. I know how much we have robbed you of in the past, and Dorian says your southern allies are being tremendously rude to you in not wishing you to deal with elven artefacts…'

'Mae,' Veldrin interrupted, caressing the book's cover, 'I understand. My reluctance to conduct research into foci is not the fact that out of us three doing it, one of us will stumble upon some great power and turn into another Corypheus; I know you and Dorian well enough, and I know myself. My very well-founded fear is that a little knowledge may be a dangerous thing.'

'But you controlled one of them,' Maevaris refuted.

'I don't know how I did that, though,' Vel replied, 'and the sky above the Temple of Lost Ashes has a very pretty scar that reminds us all I did not know what the hell I was doing…'

'So now, we learn,' Maevaris simply responded. 'Slowly, carefully…and if we actually manage to find another one of these things, we take great care not to touch it with our bare hands. Don't be _such_ a southerner,' she chided. 'It's hardly befitting to be scared of magic – of your own people's magic, even.'

She picked up one of the tea cups and took a sip, then measured Veldrin over the cup's rim.

'You are really not alone, Vel,' she said, softly. 'Let me help you. Let _us_ help you.'

Veldrin bit her lower lip. 'I don't think this is the way.'

'Then tell me of another,' Maevaris shrugged. 'You did come to speak with me, you must have had something in mind.'

Veldrin nodded, then took a deep breath. 'I do. You won't like it though, and before I tell you, you have to swear you will not tell Dorian about it.'

'You're right,' the Magistra said. 'I'm already not liking it.'

'Well, I shall leave the telling Dorian at your discretion, then,' the elf said.

'Better,' Mae responded. 'Go on,' she said, visibly bracing herself. 'What are you thinking?'

'Has Dorian explained the basics of the plan?' Veldrin asked. 'The transfer of the essences part?'

'Yes,' the other woman nodded. 'He was not particularly enthused, but he believes it will work, and that it shall weaken Fen'Harel enough for him to be physically killed, which, I guess, is what, unlike everyone else, you both want?'

'Indeed.' Vel nodded, in her turn. 'My problem with that plan is that I truly do not trust the person who will conduct this essence transfer ritual – ironically, because of whatever is good in her nature. The target of the essence channeling is her son, who is, or rather was…'

'The vessel of Urthemiel,' Maevaris said. 'That's the part that renders me deeply uncomfortable with this; I am unsure how she captured that soul in the first place, but I would not like the child to die, and have Urthemiel roaming about finding something else to inhabit. Like say, a dragon.'

'Yes...And now, we plan to have him be the container of Asha'belannar, the woman Thaedas knows as Flemeth, and the Elvhen know as Mythal. I do not think this child can hold both, Mae; in fact, I think that the attempt will kill him, and I think his mother fears the same, so she will try to do the thing that she has been running from her entire existence, and attempt to absorb Mythal herself.'

The Magistra frowned. 'Are you afraid of what she might do with this power, if…'

'Ironically,' Veldrin earnestly responded, 'no. I think my old acquaintance, Morrigan, has learned her lesson after the Well of Sorrows. She will not do this to grow herself, she will do it to save her child, as any loving mother would. My cowardice has already cost her greatly once, so this time, I would take the cup from her.'

Maevaris leaned back in her chair, and took a deep breath, then drank her tea in one breath, as if her insides had suddenly turned into a desert.

'So,' she said, with a deepening frown, 'let me reiterate this…You do not want to play around with the somnaborium, but you _do_ want to play with the essence of a presumably immortal being.'

'Yes,' Veldrin briefly answered. 'The magic involved is newer and more easily accessible.'

'And I am assuming that, unlike you, your southern associates and Dorian have considered the myriad of ways in which this could go wrong, and said a definitive and resounding no to this absolutely mad initiative.'

'Exactly,' the elf said. 'Which is why I am here.'

'Ah, because you have a death wish and you think I am the only person insane enough to grant it, I see,' Maevaris muttered, her beautiful blue eyes gathering the hardness of sapphires.

Veldrin lowered her glance; she felt her mouth was dry too, but she did not reach for the tea.

'I do not have a death wish,' she softly said, 'though I will admit to you that once Solas is dead, I will feel…less than completely alive myself. I have, however come to accept that the first of my people can be stopped if their intent is removed. One path is tranquility, of course, but I,' she whispered, 'will kill anyone, friend or foe, who entertains the notion for more than a heartbeat. The other way, then, would be for their essence to be irreversibly transformed into pure energy. Energy that lacks intelligent intent.'

'Hm,' the Magistra said, 'that is a very good thought; it would be a very basic principle of thaumatologic entropy. The only problem is that we do not know how to reshape energies, Veldrin.'

' _We_ don't,' the elf said, raising her glance to the human's, and gathering all her courage; she found it came short for the words that now needed to be spoken – she forced herself to speak them nonetheless. 'Aurelian Titus5 did.'

Magistra Tilani stood up so briskly that she almost overturned her desk.

'I've never had the urge of calling the Templars in my entire existence, Veldrin,' she hissed. 'I am having it now.'

'No need for the Templars,' Veldrin pleadingly whispered. 'Just Dorian will do.'

'Do you know what Aurelian Titus did? What he _was_?' Maevaris asked, in a low growl. 'He stole the power in people's blood, by draining them dry, over _years_ – or did Varric artistically glaze over that part? Maleficarum does not even begin to describe this man! How dare you mention his name…How dare you mention his name to _me,_ of all people…'

'Because you of all people actually know what he did and _how_ he did it,' the elf bitterly said.

'No, I do not know _how_ he did it, Veldrin, because studying his methods would be like staring into the piss and blood filled pits of hell! Maker almighty!'

'You also fought and defeated him, Mae,' the elf said. 'You'll know how to kill me, if…'

'There is no _if,_ here, Veldrin,' the human said, shaking her head in fury and awe. 'You, my deluded friend, are speaking of torturing the man you love to death...'

'Perhaps, if…if we…perhaps we could make it brief, if…'

She would have followed, but her courage was now truly gone, and her voice broke. 'Ar abelas, Mae…I know…'

'Maker's breath,' the Magistra said, crashing back to her seat, and covering her face in her hands. 'I bloody know you know what you are asking – I even think you've considered the price of what you are asking, which is,' she breathed, 'chilling. Your arm was one thing, but this…Even if you don't die or go insane on the spot, you will break yourself from the fade completely. You'll never even dream again unless you keep using Aurelian's ritual, and I will, personally…'

'I understand that, Mae,' Veldrin said, softly. 'That is why I am asking you, and not Dorian. I just…Look,' she whispered, 'the man I love made a terrible mistake, and he is about to make another, not out of malice, but out of shame. So far, though, he has done _nothing,_ and he has hurt none. If I allow Sister Nightingale to go through with what she is planning, if it works, then Solas' actions will cause one innocent boy of seven and ten to either die, or live all his years as if he were dead. It will cause a woman I do not care greatly for, but whom I am indebted to to be chained to a creature she has spent all her years loathing...'

'I do not wish to kill Mythal, and I don't want her power or her essence,' Veldrin sorrowfully followed. 'I simply wish to stop my friend before he turns his people, _our_ _people_ into destroyers of worlds…before he truly becomes the monster our legends make him out to be.'

'Even if the cost of this is becoming a monster yourself,' Maevaris said, in an equally sorrowful tone.

'Maybe it does not have to be that way. All magic, even blood magic is just an instrument – it is altered by the caster, but should not inherently alter the caster herself…' Veldrin whispered. 'I could use Titus' ritual as base, and perhaps deviate enough from it…'

The Magistra shook her head, and exhaled loudly. 'You would not be able to do that alone, my friend. You are good, but not that good, you'd need…'

'…your help,' the elf nodded.

The silence stretched, stony and cold, and it felt as if millennia had passed before Maevaris once more met Veldrin's glance.

'I need to think about this,' Maevaris tiredly said; she sighed deeply. 'My first instinct is to simply say no, but I fear that if I do not help you, you will simply seek out someone who will, and they will be remarkably easy to find.'

'I swear to you I will not,' Veldrin said – the Magistra shook her head in absolute refusal of the statement.

'It does not matter what you swear to me, Veldrin. It does not even matter if you truly mean to keep your oath, now, as you speak it…You will not be able to.'

'Because the tug of the blood magic…' the elf began, in a low whisper; the human shook her head at this, too.

'No,' Mae whispered in her turn. 'Because sometimes, affection, loyalty and selflessness are more dangerous than hunger for power; if there was one lesson you could have taken from the man you so love, it should have been this one…If you've thought of this in such depth already, and you've braved asking me…me, though you know what risks I run and how frail my position is,' she followed, in bitter regret, 'you won't let this go. You won't be able to.'

'I am sorry,' Veldrin said.

'I am too,' Mae responded, and there was nothing left to say.

* * *

1 Mae Tilani features in the DA comics. Again, not to spoil, but she is the 'widower' of Varric's cousin, and a very good, honest friend to our hirsute dwarven acquaintance. She almost makes erm, _too_ good friends with a certain King of Ferelden, who is unaware Mae is in possession of parts that, shall we say, Dorian would be more appreciative of. She is probably the first 'good' Magister we encounter in DA in overall.

2 Mythal protect us.

3 This is the Tevinter name for the Elvhen foci – Solas' orb of destruction is one of these, but there _should_ be others. The Ancient Imperium encountered these (obviously, since they sacked Arlathan, and Corypheus clearly knows how to use them) so they do have some lore on them.

4 Uhm, very new, in absolute terms. Anything relevant on the subject of the somnaborium should be _at least_ Ancient, and definitely in Old Tevene.

5 Infamous blood mage, at the hands of whom Maevaris Tilani has literally suffered a great deal. This too is part of the DA graphic novel series. In brief, Aurelian Titus discovers a way of draining specific powers from the blood of other people, and transferring them to himself, via an imitation somnaborium. Maevaris learns about this from Varric, who is out helping a…royal friend, and foolishly goes to face the guy alone, so she gets kidnapped and spends a few months chained to a wall in Aurelian Titus' not so tender care.

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Hello, hello, as usual thank you for reading :) We especially love comments, too, they make our Mabari…OK, our Mabari—sized cat roll around in delight, and purr, and fetch balls. It could be the catnip, but we prefer to think it is comments ^^

Up Next – Old friends make a cameo and nasty things happen to poor Lexi. Really nasty. Bring strong stomach and fear the language.


	10. Of Cloaks and Dual Swords

Hello there – it has not been our habit for this story, but I feel this chapter deserves an exception. The first scene of the chapter is pretty brutal, so please be warned.

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 _Jealousy and torment consumed them all, for no dreamer_

 _Wished to aid the others in the least measure._

 **Silence 1:15, 1-2**

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'Twas never a pleasure to deal with mages, Dane Casimir thought; always more work than normal folk, mayhaps because they thought that whatever healing magic would come their way if they survived Dane's _gentle_ persuasion methods would fix a broken jaw or a missing tooth…He did make it a point to tell them all that it was more likely it wouldn't, but they still held on to hope longer. The longest he'd been at one of these dress wearing freaks had been little over ten days – he'd gotten what he'd wanted, in the end; he always did, but Dane still remembered the pipsqueak because he'd almost died defending some love letters of a Templar woman who wasn't even his own.

 _Takes all sorts_ , the Ferelden man thought, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, _and one can't just judge by the looks of folk._

This kid, in particular, had looked dead-easy, mage or no mage, because…well, because there was no other way to describe him other than a pretty fairy, an' his ilk normally started talking before the first punch to the gut. This one had only squealed a little, and repeated his name and title a few times, as if Dane had given a flying fuck about Tevinter names or titles. Maker knew they all somehow sounded ungodly, or plain weird, or both – half the time, he couldn't even tell whether 'twas a man or a woman's name.

He'd struggled a little in the carriage, but had not outright screamed, which Dane had found strange, for even in the wretched hive of villainy that was Minrathous, some guard might have taken note. At least being taken out of the carriage might have made this kid see an opportunity to either make some noise or make a run for it, yet it had only been then, at the sight of the Cassius' mansion, that his struggles had completely ceased, and Alexius Hadrian had grown fully silent and limp, allowing himself to be dragged through the halls and down the staircases like a sack of potatoes…and sadly, had proven to have the entire sensitivity of one, at least for the initial overtures.

He'd wept quietly like a bitch all though, yes, and he'd screamed when poked in the right places, but he'd not even asked _why_ this was all happening to him, which, to the Ferelden mercenary, seemed like a pretty logical question to ask when one's fingernails were being pulled. He'd not begged to be let go, he'd not even made the tentative offer of a bribe, all in all, this particular interview was the strangest thing Dane had ever conducted, even more so because the subject of his attentions clearly knew more about what he was going to be asked than Dane did.

The Ferelden had still done his job according to instructions, and left no inch of his prisoner unattended, with the exception of his forearms. He'd concentrated a week of pain into one single day, and even bypassed the genuine concern over the chance that the seemingly frail young man would die in his hands – what the purse asked, the purse got, an' it was none of Dane's concern if the faggot died before the other Tevinter abomination got his answers.

Or then, it was perhaps that Cassius knew other methods than the Ferelden did, for when he had descended, truly a day later, he'd done naught but pick up a fiery poker, and bend it round his finger – in the shape of a D.

It probably stood for the first letter of whatever Tevinters called a fucking fairy in their ungodly tongue.

The horror this had conjured in the young prisoner's blue eyes had been more than the Ferelden had gotten out of him for the entire day, and he felt rather professionally insulted, for he'd liberally employed hot pokers too. In his opinions, buttocks were not necessarily _that_ sensitive, still, pressing the newly reshaped irons to the prisoner's flesh had actually elicited a _plea…_ Again, something, Dane had not gotten for the entire day.

'Guess where the next one goes, Altus Hadrian,' Cassius had said, and while the mercenary had thought between the buttocks might have been the logical choice, the Magister had gestured towards his captive's forehead. 'I'll apply this one myself,' Cassius had added, smiling wide. 'And I will make sure it is impossible to heal.'

The young man had broken at these words, and had been the strangeness of method and the fact that, for a moment, it had appeared functional, that had rendered Dane Casimir interested in what his employer wanted to find out. He normally never cared, for the purse's business was the purse's business, but this had been the strangest day of his life…and, somehow, his greatest satisfaction, for, as he listened to the prisoner speak, he'd reassured himself that he'd been right all along, and both mages were utterly mad.

For an hour, Dane had heard stories about elves and immortal elven gods and mirrors, and the veil, breaking it and walking into the fade, and other nonsense about killing or not killing wolves, gibberish that only the insane Tevinter mind could conjure or believe. He could not even decide which one of the two was madder – the kid who'd spent his last day being burned and flayed, or the other, who was hungrily breathing in his words…even taking the time to wipe the blonde one's lips of blood if he slurred too much.

The tale was so outlandish that Dane had listened to it to the end, not understanding much, but remembering all and truly seeing why Tevinter as a whole was going to hell in a handbasket. This, the mercenary thought, when Cassius stood, seemingly satisfied, would make a great tavern tale in Antiva, someday. Even more so because once the young one finally let his broken chin fall to his bruised chest, having finished his mad ravings, the Magister had not ordered Dane to kill him; he'd simply wished the prisoner well on his way to Quarinus, then spun around, and left.

Confused, and truly not understanding what the purse wanted him to do now, the Ferelden mercenary stood from the wall and lingered over the Altus for a few long minutes. The young man wasn't dead, but without serious care, he would be, in a few days' time. On his own, he was going nowhere – not even up two steps, thus…Dane knew of no other purse who liked to keep bodies in their cellar, but then, he'd not worked in Minrathous before, and they were all wrong in the head.

The young man did not move and did not struggle.

Still not knowing what was expected of him, Dane let loose the Altus' wrists, and watched him collapse to his knees – not unconscious, the Ferelden had noted, considering that maybe this had to do with aught else than mages, it had to do with…

The staircase to the cellar creaked with a different set of steps – Dane abruptly looked up, not even feeling angry, but assuming that his employer had just hired a chicken butcher to finish the fairy off. Which actually made sense, in a gold saving sort of way...

'Don't ya make cheap enemies,' he mumbled, addressing the young man, but only truthfully talking to himself; still the descending steps were not those of a man, for claws were scraping at the stone of the stair. For a moment, he feared that the Magister had found the cheapest way of doing away with both torturer and subject, and recover the money he found so vulgar to handle himself.

Still, instead of the demon or horror that he'd expected to see, he only saw the Mabari puppy. Where it had hidden, and how it had snuck in, Dane didn't know, but the dog came down the stairs, and looked upon the scene with its ears held back. He did not growl at Dane – the horse crop memory was still fresh.

Instead, the massive young animal curiously paced about the Altus, then, tentatively sniffed at his torn right ear; it whimpered, and pushed its still injured snout at the human's far more injured face with gentleness one could scarcely expect from such a creature. The man did not react, nor did he react when the dog got just a bit more daring and licked his cheek – he did not even wince, though. He did not shift. He did not lift his eyes from the floor.

If he'd been in this one's shoes, Dane thought, he'd have thought that his enemy, the enemy that had planned for him to be taken and tortured had decided that being eaten alive by a dog was how he would die – the Altus either did not think that, or was now mad enough to not care.

The Ferelden dog laid by the Tevinter's side, and put his head on the human's knee, looking up, then slowly, unexpectedly, the man put his hand, the hand that Dane had torn all fingernails from, on the dog's head. He could not give him even the lightest scratch, but he grasped the dog's ear between his fairy faggot dainty fingers and _caressed_. The dog made a noise that was neither howl nor whimper, something that laid devastatingly in between, turned on its side and place his full face in the Tevinter's hand, closing its eyes.

'Twas that truly, mages were odd.

Wordlessly, the Ferelden mercenary scoured for where he'd thrown the Altus' clothes, and stuffed him into them, broken and burnt skin and bitch tears and all – the Mabari sniffed and paced about them cautiously, not daring to approach, but not going further than a pounce away from the man Dane knew, beyond doubt, it had chosen as its master.

 _Fucking dogs and fucking mages,_ Dane thought, thinking that the place itself was insane, and the coin in his pocket was all that was keeping him well where he should have stood: grounded.

Silently, he dragged the kid he'd inflicted pain upon for a day back up silent staircases and back out dark corridors. The Mabari sought to follow, when he carried the young man outside of the mansion, but he put an end to that willfulness with a kick to the dog's snout. It remained silent, and the mansion back door silently closed behind both executioner and victim.

'Kid,' Dane said. 'I'm not a thief and ya still have your purse. Weighs like at least forty royals to me. If you do have forty royals in it, I can either kill you or take ya to wherever you were going, before this.'

The young man rose his glance to his, all pretty blue fairy eyes. _Dead_ pretty fairy eyes; whatever had happened in the darkness of that cellar, not by Dane's hands but by Cassius' words, 'twas plain to see that this kid was a dead man walking.

'Honest and stupid offer,' the Ferelden said. 'Personally, I'd kill you and dump you – your clothes and chains and rings look like a pretty penny, too. An' frankly, it doesn't look to me like there's anywhere but death you want to go to either, kid.'

'I am four and thirty,' the Tevinter whispered. 'I am not a child...'

'We're all children before death and pain,' Dane replied. 'Can also take ya back where I got you from.'

'Above all, not that,' the mage breathed. He tried to reach for his purse but could not, so the mercenary relieved him of it, only to hold it before his eyes. 'Not that, I beg,' the Tevinter pleaded. 'To the harbour…'

'Yes, to the harbour, of course to the harbour,' Dane grunted, feeling on the verge of losing his patience. 'But, after the harbour, death or Quarinus? whatever the fuck your name is?'

The Tevinter looked indecisive, as if both words had meant the same thing to him. 'Quarinus,' he said, his voice as dead as his lowered eyes – that simplified Dane Casimir's world a whole lot. Whatever the purse wanted, the purse got.

Thus, in the breaking light of dawn, he dragged the mage to the harbour, and actually bartered him passage for Quarinus, wasting five royals from the young man's purse on the passage, then five more by stuffing the least important looking of the young man's possessions, a dusty little amulet, in the pocket of his breeches, after he dumped him in the ship's hull, among many other sacks of potatoes.

Still, Dane thought, as he watched the vessel pick up wind, he'd bargained for forty royals, and a brief exploration of the money pouch's contents revealed he'd still been left with sixty – maybe more, after he got all the stones of all the rings appraised…

'Is that enough for one night, or do you feel like earning more?'

He spun on himself, dagger in hand – fucking mages, fucking dogs and _fucking_ elves, Dane thought, once he laid eyes upon the man who'd asked the question. The man wore a hood, but it was a knife ear, the human guessed, for the hood stood awkwardly from his skull, failing to conceal a fringe of dirty blonde hair.

'What for, rat?' he questioned, in turn; this new arrival was no mage, unless elven mages had suddenly taken to fighting with swords – dual swords at that.

Dual swords were the weapon that Dane Casimir feared least.

'Not much,' the elf replied, not coming closer. 'Just for repeating what the package you just dispatched spoke of.'

'Pfeh,' Dane scoffed. 'The Magister paid eight hundred. You'll pay a thousand, knife ear. Just because you're a knife ear.'

'Unfair,' the other easily remarked. 'You just need to speak to earn _my_ coin.'

'Yeh, part I least like, the speaking. An' you just made it two hundred after the thousand, vermin – all I need to is shout _armed elf!_ and you'll be mince.'

'Farewell, then,' the elf shrugged, turning to leave – whether it was mages, elves, or even fucking dogs, Dane knew this as negotiation.

'Six hundred,' he said, to the elf's turned back.

'Three,' the elf said, dryly.

'Five, or no deal,' Dane said – the elf chuckled and took one further step away, towards the darkness of an alley, and towards the place of no deals.

'Does the name Fen'Harel mean anything to you, knife ear?'

…and the Tevinter insanity _must_ have been contagious, for the elf stopped in mid-step.

'Four, and not one royal more,' the blonde elf said.

The mercenary from Ferelden considered this, then nodded to himself, for the other's back was still turned. 'We speak here, by the bannister, in full view of all who might mince ya,' he said. 'And purse upfront.'

Unlike with the fairy mage, Dean took his time in counting the elf's coin. It was there, though, to the copper, and so, while musing on the notion that _this_ must have been what pretty whores felt like, for scoring three spenders in one night, the mercenary repeated the Tevinters' ravings to the foolish elf. The vermin did not interrupt…not once, and once the insanity had once again been said out loud, he'd turned and left Dane to look upon the glory of sunrise upon the Nocean Sea.

This was truly a story to be told in Antiva, Dane Casimir thought. And from here, he could book passage back to his favourite city's best taverns for no more than thirty…alright, a hundred royals, he considered, given the weight in his pockets. For dealing with mages, dogs and elves, he'd earned some luxury.

It was only then, far too late, that he'd suddenly realised that the elf who'd been his latest purse had had an antivan accent. He'd frowned, but had time to do naught more; as his life gushed, crimson and plentiful from his throat, pouring over the bannister to mix with sea foam and fish guts _._

He was dead before he hit the water.

'Your superior will not care much for what you are about to hear about what his fair lady is planning,' Zevran Arainai said to another elf, an odd looking one, with golden skin and golden eyes. 'In truth, he may wish to carefully ponder the many meanings of hell hath no fury, Abelas, my friend…'

'I am not your friend, Shem,' Abelas responded. 'Speak.'

* * *

Cassandra pinched the bridge of her nose, and gave Leliana a long, hard stare – she felt exhausted, and she had one further day of political talks to undergo, for a cause that, to her mind, had long been settled. There was a distinct lack of satisfaction in this knowledge, as well as a feeling of indisputable futility: for all of their hard posturing on war reparations, the Ferelden delegation would sign, because they have been sent to _sign._ Teagan knew it, even worse, Radonis knew it, and the Divine would much have preferred that the two sides would not waste the entirety of three days pretending otherwise.

She'd even come unpleasantly close to taking Teagan aside and explaining that while she understood Queen Anora wanted to save political face back in Ferelden as much as Radonis did here, there were far more important, true bridges to mend – the differing Chants sprang to mind – that could have been passionately discussed. War reparations was not one of them, not because they were necessarily unfair, but because awarding them would have truthfully burned more bridges than it mended.

Which, Cassandra had considered, with an inward howl as she heard Teagan passionately repeat his arguments and saw them break upon Radonis' smile as milk split on a stone, Ferelden must have understood.

Obtaining war reparations from Tevinter would lead them to ask the same of Orlais, and then, the door to the dark cellar where folk passionately argued of who had done more harm to whom, over centuries, and how much that harm was worth. Sitting at the table as pointless words washed over her, Cassandra had had a nightmarish vision of having to sit before Veldrin, in full Dalish garb, and Briala, in full Orlesian regalia, defending the Chantry from demands of reparation for the Exalted March of the Dales and for countless alienage purges, while the implacable menace of Solas' petrifying gaze stared at her from behind the two heads of the reunited Elvhen branches.

 _If only he'd gone that way,_ Cassandra had found herself thinking, her mind drifting further and further from the talks of the humans she was actually sitting with.

She did not even know whether she might have preferred it that way, which was even more distracting – her nightmarish vision might actually have been worse, because instead of having two powerful enemies, Solas might have had two very powerful, equally embittered and embattled allies…

And now, after a day of _that,_ this.

'Please sit down, Leliana,' the Divine said; her Left Hand shook her head.

'I am not staying, Cassandra,' Leliana answered. 'I cannot let Morrigan out of my sight for too long. Maker alone knows what they are plotting.'

Divine Victoria sighed, from the bottom of her heart. 'Does it not strike you that if they were actually plotting together, Morrigan would not have told you about this second eluvian?'

'That is one tiger I do have by the tail,' the spymistress said; with a sigh of her own, she accepted Cassandra's offer of a seat. 'The other one I clearly do not, and I am starting to get the feeling that Dorian himself might be a tame looking big feline with very sharp teeth.'

'Because he's now a Magister,' Cassandra muttered, rolling her eyes and letting her shoulders slump.

'One that could make Archon or at least conciliatus1 if he gets Veldrin pregnant, or surrenders Fen'Harel to Radonis after we capture him. He is not going the pregnancy route, hence…'

'Andraste's mercy,' the Divine whispered. 'Your world is such a dark, shadow filled place, my old friend.'

'It is that way so yours does not have to be, your worship,' Leliana answered, with a sad smile.

The truthfulness of the words struck a mark deep within, along with another, irrefutable realisation - the Nightingale was dark, yes, but Veldrin Lavellan had done nothing to help her from that darkness. Where Leliana was concerned, at least, Veldrin had been an abuser among many others. Just as Justinia had, Veldrin had taken many chestnuts out of many fires with Leliana's hands, and, too concerned with her many personal twists and turns, Cassandra had done little or nothing to stop it.

They were still similar, Veldrin and Leliana, and while sometimes similarity may have bred friendship, it often caused dissonance. If Leliana was dark, maybe she sensed darkness in the elf that Cassandra did not.

'Tell me what you fear, then,' Cassandra said.

'I think Veldrin _and_ Dorian have a plan of dealing with Fen'Harel that is not ours,' the Nightingale said, plainly.

'Neither has been anything than supportive to ours.'

'Grudgingly supportive. With apologies, Cassandra, both outplay you, and they have blatantly different goals than we do. Both are politically ambitious and mage militant – this serves Tevinter and forgotten Elvhenan in one strike. What I fear is that their ideal world is entirely mage ruled, with a north-south divide that has a segregated human Tevinter and a fully reborn Elvhenan, a vision I think Archon Radonis would not strenuously object to, and that a defeated and amenable Fen'Harel in Tevinter custody may well accept.'

'That is unthinkable and almost impossible to countenance. These are our friends, Leliana.'

'These _were_ our friends. Dorian has always shown political tooth, that much is true,' Leliana said. 'But would you have imagined Veldrin sitting in Tevinter's senate, eight years ago? Eight years ago she was still praising the transportation benefits of aravels.'

'Eight years ago she was not yet the person who literally, single-handedly saved the world,' Cassandra sighed. 'You forget how, after Corypheus' defeat, every noble house in Southern Thaedas vied for her attentions.'

'She no longer has the Mark,' Leliana replied.

'No,' the Divine said, dryly, 'but she remains a mage of enough power to rival our Grand Enchanter and perhaps surpass her, and, as you may recall, she was never deprived of political savvy and charm – she had the Orlesian court eating out of the palm of her hand. Maker,' she whispered, 'I wish I had that skill.'

'She…they,' the spymistress corrected, 'could still not have gotten this far without Radonis' support, which is so overt that it even has Briala baffled.'

'So?' Cassandra tiredly inquired. 'Why would Radonis not support them? In a sense, he is flaunting that he has robbed our crown. The Inquisition was the jewel of Thaedas.'

'Yet when it came time to for the Inquisition to be taken down a notch, and pledge for the Chantry, Veldrin disbanded it post-haste.'

'That's because she had good reasons to think it was already corrupt, and because she is not Andrastian…Maker's breath!' the Divine said. 'Leliana, I appreciate your thoughts, but the fact that, had Vel smoked, she'd have lit her pipe with pages from the Chant has been known to us from the very beginning. It is, and always has been hard to swallow, but it's no dastardly novelty. Nor is the fact that Dorian is…eh, Dorian,' she sighed.

'I am sorry,' Cassandra said, 'but I still think that Veldrin did not scream – _I am not the Herald of bloody Andraste!_ every time someone called her that is as much as we could ask from her on that front; she carried what to her must be a great insult with a lot of grace, not to mention patience…'

'Ask her about the second eluvian, then,' Leliana replied, biting her lower lip. 'See if she tells _you_ , and what she tells you.'

Cassandra hid her face in her hands. 'I am not even tempted to do that,' she said. 'Not because I doubt your word, my friend, but because I am truly beginning to be scared that, great possibilities of this plan or whatever other plan going awry aside, this growing divide among us is the true danger…'

She looked up, and met Leliana's glance. 'I will not stop you from doing whatever it is you mean to do,' the Divine said, softly. 'Before that, though, I would ask you to set yourself aside and look at this situation from Vel's point of view. We have been…'

Cassandra hesitated on the choice of words.

'…unkind,' she finally spoke. 'Secretive.'

'There was no alternative to that or anything else,' Leliana briskly refuted.

'Perhaps,' the Divine nodded, 'but people are not lumps of wood. Dorian has been squarely in her corner, and Radonis is treating her with far more respect than we are. Do you not, for a single moment, consider that she might trust them more than she trusts us, because they trust her more, in turn?'

'No,' Leliana said; then, she stood and left.

* * *

1 This is a body of Magisters that are the Archon's official inner counsel. Halward Pavus was part of the previous Archon's concilliarum before the scandal caused by Dorian's amorous entanglements, ahem, forced him to resign.

* * *

Hello, hello, hopefully you have survived what happened to poor Lexi, and enjoyed seeing Zev again. And by the fact that Abelas puts in an appearance, well…

We thank you for reading and really, really like comments!

See you next week, when all hell breaks loose...Well, depending on which side you're cheering for :)


	11. The Halla Whisperer

_Surrounded by glory, they stood,_

 _In the hall of apotheosis, heedless_

 _Of what festered in the shadows the cast there,_

 _Of what stained and corroded footprints they left._

 **Silence 3:1**

* * *

'Do not let anyone within ten feet of this door,' Dorian instructed. His elven butler shrugged, then nodded and smiled.

'Not even your mother, master Pavus?' the butler asked, wryly.

'Especially not my mother,' the Magister shuddered. 'Stay by the window. If you see any carriage approaching, come knock. If you see my mother approaching…'

'Scream and flee?' the elf guessed, now outright chuckling.

'As in regular procedure, yes,' Dorian shrugged, in turn. 'Thank you,' he said, smiling, and pressing a coin into the man's hand, though he did not need to. He then turned and knocked on Morrigan's locked door.

'Ladies?' he asked.

There was no reply.

He insisted in knocking, and knocking again.

'I may not speak with you, Magister Pavus,' Morrigan's voice neutrally resounded from the other side of the oak door. 'Please, respect my position…'

'I respect all positions,' he replied, shaking his head to the servant, who'd silently pulled out the master key to all doors in the house and was holding it before his eyes. 'They'll open, no need to worry,' he whispered. 'But I do need to remind Veldrin that Dalish nimbleness is vastly overrated,' he followed, his voice turning louder than it needed be, 'and that we are on the third floor of a very tall mansion. Escape through the window once Leliana returns is truly not an option, and she will be here soon, thus…'

The key turned in the lock and the door silently drifted open.

'By all means, Dorian,' Veldrin muttered, her hand still on the handle. 'Let's make sure they hear us in Vol Dorma…'

'Amata,' he replied, taking a step forward to kiss her forehead; she sighed deeply, but rose on her toes to kiss his cheek, and waved him in with a hasty gesture.

'If you see someone, Nyrral…' she said to the server.

'Same procedure as always,' the male elf answered, warmly chuckling. 'Knock or just scream and flee. Have fun,' he sincerely and complicity wished for both of his odd, kind owners. He turned about and they closed the door before either of their faces could come to show that this would be anything but.

'It took Mae the whole of ten minutes to be in your chambers after I left, didn't it?' Veldrin sighed, once the door was closed and locked behind them.

'Less than three,' Dorian said, looking at her and harshly clenching his jaws. 'She had to wait for me for about half a clock's face, however, as I was in Radonis' chambers, collecting what I found, in bafflement, _you_ asked him for. And good eve to you, Morrigan.'

The witch looked over her shoulder, regaled him with a nod, then returned to staring into the fire; she looked as if she'd aged a decade over the past two days, and Dorian felt as if he'd aged a decade as well. Alone seemingly untouched by time or worry, Veldrin strolled to the fireplace, and leaned her shoulder on one of its pillars – the Magister had to admit to himself that Lexi's minor restorative spells had worked wonders, for now, she truly looked like a radiant little sprite.

He had to remind himself that she was a very practical one, too.

'No one can be trusted, these days,' Vel sighed. 'I was hoping Mae would give me at least five minutes of consideration…Where is Leliana?' she asked.

'She was entering the Argent Spire as I was leaving senate,' Dorian replied. 'Which does not give us time to have the conversation I mean to have. We shall be having it later and in private, I assure you, Veldrin.'

'No need,' Morrigan said. 'Lavellan has already told me what she has done thus far, and what she further intends.'

'And the second eluvian?' the Magister asked, frowning. 'Smokescreen?'

Veldrin shook her head. 'I fully intend to build it,' she answered. 'If Solas' people got close enough to us to drip poison in the Nightingale's ears, then they could not have missed the first one. The list of components was the smokescreen, however, as I really wanted Leliana out of earshot for the odd hour. I will not be doing a repetition of last night anytime soon, I fear…'

'A very justified fear, as I won't even leave a pin in your chambers, lest you prick yourself with it.' Dorian muttered. 'But, to the point,' he sighed. 'Do you think this lunacy workable, Morrigan? I am sure you've already told Veldrin, but I should like to hear the answer for myself. If, of course, _you_ can be trusted to give the same answer twice.'

The witch looked at him in undisguised superiority, which was ill fitting to her drawn features. 'I shall do my best to repeat myself, then. Yes,' she slowly followed, adding precisely what Dorian did not wish to hear, 'it is workable.'

'Kaffas,' Dorian cursed.

'If taken to its perfect finality, it could probably permanently remove intent from both Mythal and Fen'Harel. It will kill the Inquisitor, of course. You too, Magister.'

'Not in discussion,' Veldrin interrupted, briskly. 'Dorian is not…'

It was the witch's turn to interrupt, in chuckles as clear as crystal chimes. 'See, Pavus?' Morrigan sweetly inquired. 'Your impressive arm ornament does love you, after a fashion. It is rather…touching – I wonder how touched your _vhenan_ will be, when he sees it, Inquisitor.'

'Don't go there, please,' Veldrin softly said. 'We don't have time for it, and, honestly, you are the one who benefits most from this.'

''Tis true,' Morrigan admitted, lowering her glance. 'A most unexpected gift, I shall so recognise. If truthful, the intent alone warrants my gratitude – should you…should we succeed, my gratitude will be eternal. As will the gratitude of the unchanging world.'

'If anyone is left alive to be grateful to,' Dorian said, sitting on the coffer that lay at the foot of Morrigan's bed, and shaking his head. Veldrin came and kneeled by his side, looking up.

'Is it a _no_ , then?' the elf whispered, the tips of her ears pointing down. 'A _yes?'_ she asked again, when he caressed her hair. 'Did Mae…'

'Oh, Maker, Vel,' the man said. 'Mae was…'

'Furious,' Veldrin completed, with a nod.

'No, actually,' he replied, with a bitter chuckle, 'she was distraught. Saddened, if anything…she also thinks that this could, in theory, work, though it took her a while before she could think past the mental barrier of Aurelian Titus.'

'Who was this man?' Morrigan queried. 'My ears have never heard his name.'

Dorian shrugged. 'He was a stereotypical cackling Magister, who had wet dreams of dragons, and imagined he was better than he actually was; he used a somniari1's blood to attempt to…what else? Bring back the Ancient Imperium. I swear, if these talentless upstarts used half of the energy they put into restoring the Ancient Imperium into caring for the current one, we might still have an empire, and not the ghost riddled memory of one,' he sneered.

'It did not get him far,' Veldrin picked up, meeting Morrigan's gaze. 'He did manage to influence the dreams of others in the fade, and rose to some prominence in the Magisterium despite being…'

She chuckled.

'A grasping ankle biter, as Dorian would have it. His goals,' the elf said, shifting her golden glance to her husband's, 'are of no interest to us – he never even came close, and that is why you've never heard of him. His method, on the other hand…'

'He transferred a dreamer's magical power to himself, I think,' Veldrin said, visibly willing herself through the words, 'and bound the dreamer's life force to his own, via some magical pebble that was not terribly different from a focus orb.'

'Hm,' Morrigan said. 'We shall briefly need some sort of focus, then, though how you shall go about obtaining one, I would not venture to guess. You are, still powerful enough for the cast, you do not mean to sustain the link for long, and once you have cast it, Fen'Harel's power will come to you…'

'And I will just use it to refuel the focus until it is…done,' Veldrin nodded, biting her lower lip. 'It should be fast,' she whispered. 'Solas is nothing but the ultimate dreamer. Ow,' she exclaimed, as Dorian pinched her shoulder. 'What was that for?'

'If I started enumerating the reasons, we'd be here till dawn,' he responded frowning. 'It was just to call you back from the world where magical possibility is only limited by the inflamed boundaries of our imaginations. Which is not this world; in this world, you might recall Varric drunkenly telling you that to kill the dreamer, you had to destroy the focus – which to me, Vel, translates into: to kill Solas, we'd have to kill _you_.'

Veldrin did not shrug, as he'd feared she would. She simply looked up at him, and frowned in turn.

'Now who is being melodramatic?' the elf grunted. 'What if to kill him we'd just have to smash my staff's focus gem? Or whatever enchanted pebble we use – seriously, Amatus…'

'That would require a very serious study of Aurelian Titus' initial channeling diagrams, Amata.'

'Which is why I need Mae, and you, if you are so inclined, since she's seen fit to bring you into this,' Veldrin bit back. 'My Tevene is good, but not exceptional, your way of scripting higher magic still feels awkward, to me, and I can't modify the spell on my own…'

'And sadly, I am trapped,' Morrigan said.

'You're not bloody trapped, oh great swamp dwelling repository of all knowledge, Tevene, Elvhen and everything that lies in between and beyond.' the man exploded, briskly standing up. 'Doesn't it occur to you that if Leliana kills your son before any of your mad plans – hers, Vel's – come to pass, it's only Leliana's plot that will be dead in the water? Veldrin's actually does not need him.'

There was a…silence.

'That was the sound of me, just stabbing myself in the leg, yes?' Dorian sighed, melting back down.

Neither woman had a chance to answer, for the door swung aside violently, smashing against the wall; all the mages brought their barriers up, pointlessly.

'Mother,' Dorian said, once more standing, to catch the stumbling dowager lady Pavus. 'Oh dear,' he said, looking over his shoulder to Veldrin, and feeling gripped by a different concern, 'looks like wine o'clock came at noon today…'

'Why ish no one having dinner at the appointed time! No reshpect in this house anymore! Twenty minutes I've been ringing for…tea, and company, and none comesh!' the elderly woman screamed, holding on to her son's shirt for dear life. 'And where are the fucking elves, they're all gone! Eschept for that one,' she slurred, aiming a hate filled glance, a desiccated arm and an accusatory finger at Veldrin. 'Barren, useless piece of kaffas…'

'Something is wrong here,' Dorian said, not apologising for his mother's words. He simply dislodged her from his chest to pass her to Veldrin's arms, and rushed into the corridor.

Vel nearly tumbled under the burden's weight but managed to uplift the old woman, who promptly tried to claw her across the face, and broke her long fingernails on the shimmering shield of the barrier.

'He ish my only son,' the old woman said, her screams reduced to sobs.

Veldrin struggled to hold her but held her nonetheless, or at least so Dorian imagined for he heard his mother's heels scratch on the wood, but did not hear her drop to the floor.

'Why coulsh you not just let him be, why did you have to…' was the last that Dorian heard, after he'd slammed the door.

The elven servant he had trusted for all of his life was gone; Dorian might have thought that the elf had been bribed or killed, that he had fled before screaming, yet…There was no blood. There was, however, a singed mark upon the hardwood floor.

'Vel,' he called. 'Vel!'

'Stop shouting, Gods…Mythal'enaste!' Vel exclaimed, running into the corridor, and seeing the same thing he had. 'Morrigan!'

'I art coming, I gather 'tis all dire…' Morrigan said; through the crack of the door, Dorian saw that his mother had been sat before the fire with her favourite pastime to death in her hands. Both women hurried to his side, and glanced upon the burn mark upon the wood, then at each other. He stretched his arm out, and barred them both from rushing downstairs.

'We take this slowly,' Dorian said. 'Our weapons are below – Morrigan, do you have…'

A flash of magical energy singed his shoulders, and he briefly spun, to glance where the witch had stood and notice that she had seemingly vanished. Furious at himself, he'd lowered his gaze, then all but thrown caution to the wind and jumped over the bannister, for in place of Morrigan, he saw a gigantic black spider, with glittering golden eyes.

'Eh,' he blandly said, trying to remember the last time he'd been at a loss for words. 'I…guess that implies you do not need weapons.'

The spider clicked its pincers together, then quietly skittered three steps lower – it stopped and once more turned to face Dorian and Veldrin. It clicked its pincers together again, this time, in pointed impatience.

'I think it…she wants us to shield her,' Vel said, in an utterly amazed tone, and indeed, after the shimmering contours of the barrier about her had been renewed, the spider resumed its quiet descent, not looking to see if it was followed.

'Spiders,' the Magister muttered, carefully taking the first step. 'It always has to be bloody giant spiders.'

There was none on the second story landing, nor in the corridor; the house itself felt…dead, Dorian thought, cursing at himself, for, no matter how quietly he tried to tread, he was still the only one of the three whose steps made sound. They crept around the corner of the staircase, and, as Morrigan stretched an impressive, sticky web cocoon behind them, ensuring that none could pass the landing from either above or below, Dorian took a wide stride, hoping his footsteps would be muffled by the thick carpet.

He was right on that account, though victory evaded, for the floor underneath creaked – a high, plaintive sound that it had probably been making for years and which none had noticed before. Now, it resounded as loud as thunder rolling though the dead stillness, and all three froze and cringed.

'Sorry,' he quietly mouthed towards Veldrin. The elf scowled horribly, and shook her head.

Nothing else stirred; the renewed silence seemed to slow time, until finally, Vel drifted forward, heading for the door of her study. Still, as she passed a smaller, adjoining door, she abruptly stopped and frowned, then disappeared within, causing her husband's heart to jump.

'Maker's balls, Vel,' he hissed, not daring to dart forward on her trail. Morrigan skittered forth rapidly, and he dared follow at what he felt was an excruciatingly slow pace. He pushed the door further ajar. 'Oh crap,' he breathed.

The little side room, which lied next door to Veldrin's study and across the corridor from his, had been the absolute domain of their scribe – an elderly and somewhat haughty elven woman that had been in the family since Dorian's father was a boy. Halward Pavus had even sought to free her, twice, for it had at some point become obvious that her ability with scribing did not solely stem from her incomparable erudition; she'd refused both times, then brutally shot down further attempts by saying she was not leaving her job, and if freed, not even the mighty House Pavus would afford to pay her for her impeccable service.

Perhaps, Dorian thought, she'd been happy, and had genuinely enjoyed work that she was exceptionally qualified for. She was a great and stern archivist, probably the only person who could keep order amid the thousands of tomes in the Pavus library. She'd never, the Magister dazedly considered, left her room like…this…

An inkpot was spilled over priceless parchments and her quills were scattered on the desk, and on the floor; one, the one she might have been writing with, was broken in half. The entire chamber looked as if a powerful gust of wind had suddenly burst through, but the windows were barred, and, on her chair, there was the same discrete singe mark they had seen on the upper floor.

'This bodes ill,' he whispered to Veldrin. She quietly nodded.

'Let's go get our staves,' she answered, in the same hushed tone. She kneeled, and whispered something to the spider; it spun about and skittered out the door, and Veldrin followed, her steps no longer as careful as they had been, but hurried and heavy. He could actually hear her move in the study next door, even as he, himself, found it impossible to tear his gaze from the ravaged desk.

'Dorian,' he heard Vel whisper from behind.

'She would not have gone,' he answered. 'Not of her own free will.'

'I know, Amatus,' the elf softly spoke. 'Let's…'

'You were correct, Inquisitor,' Morrigan said, returning to her human shape. Her voice was still low, but no longer a whisper. 'The floor is deserted, but for us. How many should have dwelt here?'

'No one but her,' Dorian said, gesturing towards the desk. 'Nyrral and Maeris come if they are called, but this is the only permanent…Downstairs. Kitchen.' he said, tearing himself from the sight, and quickly traversing the corridor – he too no longer felt the need to hide his steps, for the certainty of what had happened was growing about him steadily. He felt as if he had been wading waist high through mud, and Vel, he thought as he returned with his weapon, Vel…

Veldrin no longer looked like a radiant sprite.

Dorian briefly squeezed her hand, and she have him a minute squeeze in return; neither cared for Morrigan's disgusted smirk, and neither acknowledged it with even a word. In silence now imposed by the heaviness of their thoughts rather than precaution, Veldrin dispelled Morrigan's web and headed down.

None stopped to glance at the singe marks in the dining hall downstairs, nor take in the misplaced porcelain and scattered silverware; whatever had happened here, it had been as sudden and as quiet as what had happened above. They might not have heard a broken plate from the third floor, but if any had screamed, Dorian thought, silently recalling the army of servants that normally saw that his mother's table was set perfectly, if only one had screamed…

He willed his thoughts clear.

'There should be at least eight human slaves in the house at this time in the evening,' Dorian coolly said. At his side, her staff already glowing and in focus, Veldrin nodded. 'I know it is an unpleasant thing to say,' he followed, 'but I do find myself desperately wishing they are gone as well; would be refreshing to deal with a madman Magister who viscerally opposes slavery, for once.'

'That'll be the day,' Morrigan hissed from behind, he briefly glared at her, and stopped before the servants' quarters door; quiet, rushed whispers seeped ominously from behind it, almost completely muffled by the wooden panel.

'We didn't invite Blackwall to this party, did we?' Dorian said, his voice returning to a whisper. 'Vishante kaffas!' he cursed under his breath, taking a step back in fright, as the flash of light that had suddenly flared dulled to reveal Morrigan, in the shape of a great bear. He recovered faster, this time. 'Watch the floor with those claws,' he whined. 'It's Steel Age teak wood…'

As if to pointedly spite him, the witch waded forth and pushed between them to take her position to the front, her claws sinking into the wood at each step. She looked over her furry shoulder and gave a low, mocking growl – Dorian shielded her, and gripped his staff.

Morrigan rose on her hind legs and roared, not as much opening the door to the servants' quarters, but tearing it to pieces; a chorus of horrified screams rose from the room beyond, not deterring her advance…no more than the swift arrows aimed at her chest and head were. One after the other, the arrows were deflected by the shield, and the bear charged forward unhindered, making room for the mages behind her.

'What the…' Dorian exclaimed, putting all his energy into swiftly renewing his barrier, upon a different target – to Leliana's great good fortune, as Morrigan had pounced upon her with all of her bulk, and Veldrin's lightning sparks were already darting about the room, searching for blood. The confusion lasted a further second, amplified by the cries of the slaves and the rattling of flying crockery, as Morrigan's bear body was thrown aside by the shield and rolled across the room like a battering ram unhinged in full swing.

The witch rolled to her side, seeking to get up, but slipping on the oil slick caused by an overturned barrel. In turn, Leliana jumped on the kitchen board with feline grace, pushing all the hanging pots and pans out of her way, and rearming her bow.

'Stop!' he shouted, with no hope of making himself heard; he then all but dropped his staff to cover his ears, for, from unbearably close, Veldrin put two fingers in her mouth and whistled with all the lung necessary to make every single halla of the Exalted Plains hear her all the way from Minrathous. 'Maker!' he shouted, this time, hoping to hear himself over the screeching in his skull.

All others had frozen in place – Morrigan ready to pounce, Leliana with her bow stretched, and the human… _only_ human slaves still huddled in a corner; as all glances incredulously turned to her, the elf shirked closer to him and apologetically shrugged.

'Sorry,' she said. 'Erhm, really sorry?' Veldrin added, when the man scowled, and took a step to the side, still rubbing his ear.

'That's what I get for marrying a holy goat herder's daughter,' he muttered. 'Andraste's frilly small clothes, that is some sort of unharvested weapon! It might have even sobered up my mother.'

'What are you doing here?' Leliana asked, lowering her bow but not jumping off the massive, wooden kitchen centerpiece.

'It is _my_ house, if memory serves,' Dorian snarled, in response. 'What are _you_ doing here?'

'I invited myself to stay, if memory serves,' Leliana replied, arching an eyebrow. 'I left for a small hour, then returned to find the front door unlocked and unattended, the dining hall in disarray and clear marks of an intrusion – I came into the kitchens to find these people,' she followed, gesturing towards the huddled slaves, 'terrified, and just as I was trying to calm them…you three burst in, shooting in blind.'

'Unlike you,' Morrigan sourly replied, regaining her human form, and looking at her oil soaked self in disgust.

'I shot at a great bear that came hurtling through the door,' the Nightingale answered, jumping off the counter, and landing as silently as a cat might have. 'I do not know what you were hurtling at.'

'Those we can't catch,' Veldrin said, softly.

She took a glance at the huddled humans, at their tear crossed and petrified features, then leaned her staff against the wall behind her and went to them, speaking her not exceptional Tevene in a soothing voice to tell them that it was all good, and that they were all safe, as those who would protect them were now here, and would protect them.

No wonder that the slaves were terrified – they were all Soporati2 ,Dorian thought. He never manifested magic around the house, and Vel did not do so either. No wonder Leliana had shot in blind to protect them…Still, this also implied that getting them to speak of what had just happened would be difficult, and even when they did describe events, they would not be able to offer too much in the way of an accurate description. Nor, he thought, hearing heavy, belligerent steps in distinct cadence approaching from behind, would they get the time to obtain one.

He spun on his heels and smiled.

'Magister Pavus,' the captain of the Templar contingent that had just marched through his dining hall greeted, in far politer a tone than Dorian might have expected from a man in heavy armour.

'Knight Centurion,' he greeted, still smiling despite the fact that behind their commander, the other ten templars had spread into a half circle which denoted anything but friendly intentions; Dorian felt Veldrin had stepped up to his side, and reached for her hand in blind. Normally, such a gesture provoked ill-hidden, mocking expressions even among those who should have best known how to hide them, yet now…The sight of the elf made the lower ranking knights visibly brace. One even minutely shifted back.

'How may we assist you, on this vexing occasion?' the Magister asked.

'Archon Radonis politely requests your presence. Yours too, Magistra,' the Templar said – in the same disconcertingly courteous tone, and only after offering Veldrin an equally disconcerting and very respectful bow.

'As always, we shall be glad to assist his grace in any way our capacity permits,' Veldrin said, 'yet, as you can probably observe, we are currently…'

'His grace, Archon Radonis equally asked us to impress upon you the _urgency_ of his invitation.' The Knight Centurion replied, firmly; his expression then oddly shifted – not towards threat, Dorian noticed. Towards sincere distress. 'Have either of you glanced out a window in the past half hour, Magisters?' the man queried, sounding utterly tired.

'No,' Dorian answered. 'We have been distracted from Minrathous' glorious skyline by unpleasant household events.'

'His grace, Archon Radonis also instructed that perhaps a glance outside would convey the urgency of his invitation better than I might,' the Templar said, gesturing for his troop to move aside and allow the two mages passage.

It was ridiculous, Dorian thought, how much reassurance he derived from the fact that he still had his weapon; it would serve him little among ten templars, but Veldrin had left hers behind, and…

'Oh Gods,' Veldrin breathed, glancing out the window before he did. Dorian kept his sight firmly down for a second longer, counting heartbeats and building courage; he said nothing when he finally looked outside.

Minrathous' sky was lit up by what appeared like a rain of falling stars, or a masterful, if subdued fireworks display – wave upon wave of small, dull lights appeared and disappeared, sweeping over the crimson glow of the city proper. The lights moved above quarters in a controlled pattern, growing gradually to peak density, then receding before rolling onwards.

It was hypnotising, Dorian thought.

 _He's taking them all_ , he thought. _Somehow, he's..._

It was impossible; it was... It was the beginning of the end.

'Go get your staff, Vel,' he whispered; she nodded, and turned to retrieve her weapon – the templars barred her path, moving all as one.

'Is this an arrest?' Dorian pleasantly inquired. None missed the significance of his weapon's glow, however, and he kept it at his side despite the fact that Vel had been decisively pressing his arm down.

'No,' the Knight Centurion said, 'no,' he repeated, stepping up before his troop, in a futile attempt at calming them down. 'His grace said nothing of the sort, yet we… _I,_ ' he corrected, his gaze locked on Veldrin's, 'would it consider it a personal favour if the Magistra were to travel unarmed. Please.'

* * *

1 The word in Tevene for Dreamers, the mages ruled the Ancient Imperium. These guys accessed and modified the fade in their dreams. Amusingly enough, the word for a person with such abilities is the same as the Elvhen word for sleep – which makes sense in a sad sort of way.

2 Sleepers. As in no magic.

* * *

Well, we did not expect Solas to just stay put, and let these guys plot forever, did we? :) And I doubt we imagine Radonis is going to be pleased...

Thank you for reading :)


	12. Those Left Behind

_The Great Choir of Silence shook_

 _As the earth trembled in holy terror._

 _A wordless scream is if from_

 _The legions of dead slaves rose_

 _To the zenith of the black sky._

 ** _Silence 2:5_**

* * *

'A little face-painted savage appears,' one of the _others_ remarked; for as relieved as she was to see that she was not truly the only elf left, Veldrin smirked.

'An Altus appears, Liberato,' she answered, dryly. 'Should you not stand?'

'Do not be ridiculous,' the other elf sneered, in return. 'You are no Magister.'

'But I am,' Dorian put in sweetly, causing the colour to drain from the daring one's cheeks as he entered Radonis' antechamber, just a step behind her. 'Besides, is it not common politeness to stand when a lady enters the room?'

And then, they all _did_ stand, and lowered their glances, like the well trained puppets they were. Veldrin looked away, chewing on fiery rage; no wonder, she thought, that Solas had left _these_ behind. If Dorian, or any human, for that matter, had instructed them to jump, they would have asked how high, and weather a curtsy upon landing was needed. These…seven, she counted, might have been the last few elves in Minrathous, but they were certainly not the last of the Elvhen.

She knew three of them by name, the rest by sight, and was fond of none, as none were fond of her. All were mages, yet, due to their class, they had no chance of ever acceding to even the lower chamber of Senate. Their hostility towards her had been immediate, more poignant than that of the humans and infinitely more jarring, even more so because they truly thought themselves Imperial citizens, and thus, far above Veldrin herself.

In a sense, she thought, drawing herself to as remote a corner of the room, and as far away from the others as possible, she well understood their frustration and spite, for she had been swiftly elevated. Unlike them, in Tevinter's eyes, she was Laetan – born of magic-less parents, but free; her marriage had made her a citizen, and once she had recovered her arm, the Altus title had followed as more or less of a technicality. She might not have flaunted it either, for she was not immodest and well understood the unfairness of the limitations, yet, though she'd attempted to endear herself to her people, in the beginning, she'd quickly come to grasp that the only thing they had in common was the shape of their ears.

These men and women were Tevinter, more so than Dorian would ever be; they fiercely envied those above, and ruthlessly oppressed those they had left behind, in a frenzy of showing the humans that they were exactly like them, hence worthy of elevation. Looking upon them, and in their random brushes along the corridors of the senate, she'd learned that they too had come to engineer their marriages, that they too chased the perfect mage, the one that would finally ascend. Some had married humans and had human children, but they were still inherently submissive to them…

'Deep breaths, Amata,' Dorian said, tucking her hair behind her ears. 'Let's not start with decapitations before the Archon does.'

'Gods, Dorian, if Radonis plans to have us all thrown down a hundred-foot-deep hole…'

'I'll make sure you get your very own oubliette to starve in, and are not stuck with Gladius.' The human quietly chuckled.

'You know his name?' she muttered.

'Of course I know his name, he's Cassius' secretary. Don't you read my correspondence?'

'Only Lexi's letters,' Veldrin answered, trying to smile.

'Good choice,' Dorian nodded, 'though Cassius is entertaining in his own right. And the fact that Gladius is out here,' he followed, biting his lower lip, 'can only mean that Cassius is in there,' he ended, tilting his head towards Radonis' door.

'…which may be very bad,' Vel replied.

'Or very good,' the man whispered, 'given the fact that Radonis is bound to have questions, and Cassius has no answers. I am sure that his first and best idea was to gather those who, for one reason or another, have been left behind in Solas' rapture, and beat whatever he imagines is the truth out of them.'

'That would fit my definition of very bad, Dorian,' the elf said.

'Indeed,' he nodded, 'but I don't think Radonis is interested in what Cassius thinks is the truth – he will be interested in the actual truth. Might not spare any of your fervent admirers here any beatings. You're a different category altogether, _Altus_ ,' he ironically put in.

'Spare me,' the elf sighed.

'You would have made my mother so proud! The dreadnought-like poise, the hammer-like grace…'

'I'm not going to apologise to Gladius, if that is what you are subtly hinting at,' Veldrin said, scowling. 'If I had known my vallaslin would cause so much ire and derision from Minrathous to bloody Denerim to the blessed fade…'

'You'd have had them removed?' Dorian guessed, arching an eyebrow.

'No,' she huffed, 'I would have gone for the elaborate version, the one that covers everything but the whites of my eyes and glows in the dark. Shem,' she sighed, not speaking of the only human in the room; he knew as much and smiled, pulling her to his chest.

'We will be alright as long as we are useful,' the Magister quietly said. 'So let us be _very_ useful,' he added, straightening as the door to Radonis' study opened, and a liveried human servant bowed to them, inviting them in.

She followed him without further thought, not letting herself feel the anger and humiliation of those left behind.

* * *

The communication crystals which hung in suspended animation above Radonis' desk were lighting up like fairy lights on Satinalia, after absolutely every soul had had too much to drink. Equally mesmerising was the come-and-go of various Altus, who picked one of the crystals amid the row, called out the name of a city…

… _Quarinus…Perivantium…Vol Dorma…Vyrantium…_

…then rushed out of earshot, to receive reports.

Archon Radonis was no longer interested in hearing them, for they had all sounded the same for the past two hours, and all said but one thing: the elves were vanishing, all of them, to a child; from cook to passionate lover to learned scribe they were all simply…evaporating, in all of those cities, and more were disappearing by the minute.

Veldrin was too focused to be frightened, or rather, she felt that her heart was frozen while her mind was on fire. It was equally odd to note how much genuine sympathy she felt for Radonis' personal troubles – she'd not come to care for Tevinter more than she cared for the other human nations, yet on the same note, she did not think one human state more despicable than the others. Whether they outright enslaved the Elvhen or merely impoverished and hunted them, they were all the same, in her eyes. Even so, she did not confuse the overall nation with the person who led it, and Radonis undoubtedly had her respect.

Now, perhaps, even a smidgeon of affection, for it was obvious that being hostile to the few remaining elves was the last thing on Radonis' mind. It was not far from Cassius', though.

'Why is _she_ here?' Magister Cassius spat, looking past her and addressing Dorian.

The elf managed a cheeky half-grin. 'I was invited, Magister Cassius. Just as you were.'

'Does it occur to you that perhaps _now_ might be a good time to start controlling that elf of yours?' Cassius followed, fully ignoring her. 'I know a manly punch is far removed from your possibilities, but a bitch slap…'

'You seem in need of being slapped yourself, Cassius.' Dorian said, dryly. 'You are hysterical and just about on the verge of hyperventilating. I fear for your health, let alone your focus.'

'Enough, please,' Radonis sighed, crashing in his imposing seat; he pressed his fingers to his temples, and briefly closed his eyes. When he reopened them, his glance was decisively set on Veldrin. 'How is he doing this?' he asked, with no introduction, and paying no heed to the fact that Cassius had sourly pursed his lips. 'How do we stop it?'

'Your grace,' the elf began, sorrowfully shaking her head, 'I…'

'She doesn't know, and even if she did, she would not tell us,' Cassius spitefully interrupted. 'We are wasting precious time. If I may…'

'Why is Gladius still here?' Dorian interrupted, cutting the other Magister off in mid-sentence.

'Excuse me?' Cassius frowned. 'Are you implying…'

'We are implying nothing, Magister Cassius,' Veldrin sighed, guessing where Dorian was leading. 'We have truly seen nothing and felt nothing, and we responded to the summons before we could question our remaining…help,' she said, biting her lower lip. 'No elf was left in our household, and we know of at least one, if not two or three who would not have left us willingly. Why Gladius is still here is a question of great import.'

'Is it not obvious?' Cassius muttered. 'He is a mage, and he resisted it, for he is well trained. When that _creature_ appeared, he shielded himself and cast at it, so it vanished empty handed…'

'Whereas my scribe didn't,' Radonis said, a distinct twinge of sadness in is voice. 'I see. But Veldrin, you…must have resisted this as well. Correct?'

She did not know whether to laugh or weep. 'No,' she replied in a small voice. 'No, I did not – so you see, Magisters, your grace, _my_ loyalty to the Imperium is so great and so well known to our enemy that I was not even…invited to his impromptu clans meet.' Veldrin added, in mock cheer.

'Vel,' Dorian said, softly; she simply shook her head, and took a deep breath though gritted teeth.

'You mentioned a creature,' the elf said, looking Cassius in the eyes – still baffled, the man shook his head, in turn.

'Gladius alone saw it,' he said. 'Should I…'

'Not needed,' the Archon replied, shaking his head. 'You have a witness sitting before you.'

'Your grace?' Dorian inquired, with a frown.

Radonis leaned back in his seat, and nodded. 'I was in the middle of a dictation for the resolution with blasted Ferelden,' he said, 'when my scribe's hand suddenly froze, and he looked up at me with this blank, tense expression – as if his mind had suddenly been drawn away; for a moment, I had the sensation that I'd said something outrageous to so distract him, and was about to ask him what it had been, then… _something…'_

'Something, your grace?' Cassius asked.

'Yes, Cassius,' Radonis muttered. 'I may have had a complex past hour, but I am still in control of my language – creature was no more descriptive. _Something_ that looked like a spirit, but clearly was not one, as it was corporeal…I could tell, because when it put its hands on Flavius' shoulders I saw the indentation on his robes, as it latched. It then just pulled him into nothingness, knocking the chair back; there was a brief and very subdued flash of light, some minor thermal release, and they were both gone. I did not even feel the veil warp until in the aftermath, and the sensation was minute.'

'I've never seen anything akin to it,' he softly ended.

The elf bit her lower lip, her thoughts whirring like a hurricane. 'We may have,' she said, questioningly looking to Dorian; he narrowed his eyes.

'Sentinels?' he asked. Veldrin decisively shook her head.

'No, sounds more like the guardians at Fen'Harel's sanctuary, before the Vir'Dashara,' she answered.

'Is this yet another titbit of information that was not worth our attention previously, Magister Pavus?' Cassius sneered.

Dorian rolled his eyes and sighed. 'That would have been a particularly short report, Magister Cassius. A riveting battle account, true…I could have told you we indeed fought _something_ between the worlds, yet it might have remained at the status of _something.'_

'We've no idea what these actually are,' Veldrin followed. 'They appear as spirits, yes, but as you well noted, they are corporeal.'

'Indeed,' Dorian muttered. 'The one with the gigantic hammer was particularly corporeal. My teeth are clattering at the memory alone.'

'We do not know exactly what they are,' the elf tensely reiterated, 'but they truly are in-between creatures. They did not communicate as spirits or demons do – they spoke as mortals; I think they are spirits that do not possess a body, but are bound to it, willingly bound. Yet,' she followed, looking to Radonis, 'the sensation I had was that they were connected to Fen'Harel's sanctuary, to the actual place, not to…'

'Epic misjudgment from both of us, Amata,' Dorian sighed, nervously running his hand over his face. 'Mythal's sentinels were not bound to her temple – why would these be?'

'All of this elven superstition does nothing,' Cassius angrily put in.

'Elvhen superstition has just kicked us in the head and in the nuts in a single swing,' the other Magister answered, speaking the name of the people as it should have been spoken. 'I think…'

'The theology behind any of this is unimportant to me for the moment, Magisters,' Radonis said, dryly. 'I need a way in which this cataclysm can be stopped, _now,_ before the entire country collapses around us and the Qun catch wind of it. Please tell me one of you has one.'

The two humans looked away from the Archon, and from each other. In turn, Veldrin lowered her glance, to disguise the fact that her eyes were glowing with rage.

 _Fool me once, shame on you,_ she thought. _Fool me twice…And this is already the third time, vhenan._

She raised her eyes to Radonis'.

'I think I may have an idea,' Veldrin said; whatever was left of her heart was beating at the base of her throat. 'And if I may ask your grace for a great favour, I suggest we should start by making Magister Cassius happy and placing me under arrest.'

* * *

Hey all - unusually short chapter today, but we'll be back on Wednesday with the completion. The other half of our 5k words is different in tone, and we did not feel like the two halves read well together.

We thank you for reading and commenting, and we'll see you in a couple of days :)


	13. Of Less than Warm Farewells

_The one who had spoken_

 _Into shadow crept and made himself away._

 _North, to the road, Minrathous bound._

 _Fear grasping at his every breath_

 _That none might stop his brethren_

 _Save the Archon himself._

 ** _Silence 2:5_**

* * *

For as terrible the entire evening had been, returning home to find Maevaris Tilani pacing the entry hallway like an enraged tiger, and in such a state of distress that she had neither matched her jewelry nor her shoes to her robes – a crime against high fashion that might otherwise been unimaginable - made Dorian inwardly chuckle. He held it in to the best of his abilities, though, and attempted to compose his features into the sternest mask possible.

'Oh, Dorian, sweetheart!' Mae exclaimed, embracing him tightly, and for once not cupping his behind as she did so. 'I came as soon as I heard…How could this happen!'

'Treacherous elf,' he mumbled, finding that the fact that he was fighting to repress laughter had made his voice sound like he was on the verge of tears. 'She has been working against us all along, Mae…'

'No!' Cassandra exclaimed from behind, darting to her feet with her fists clenched. 'She's being falsely accused!'

The Magister pushed himself away from Mae, and turned his back on all, biting his lips to the blood; a forcibly stifled chuckle sounded like a sigh of deep, terrible pain – Maevaris rushed to embrace him once more, burying her forehead between his shoulders, and he felt the first sting of guilt. It was still not enough to stop him from laughing quietly to himself; the effort made him look as if he were shaking with sobs.

'Dorian,' Leliana too intervened, sounding small and far less in control than her vaunt, 'I understand your sense of betrayal, but you must tell us how much she has shared of our plans, for how long…'

'Oh, please,' Morrigan snarled, coming to his aid just as he could truly hide no longer. 'Pavus is laughing his lower jaw unhinged. Are all of you blind?'

He did laugh out loud, then, despite the fact that Maevaris punched him in the shoulder with strength unbecoming the delicate, sensuous woman she said she'd always felt like, and only a fool's fortune helped him dodge Cassandra's fist, for, as he bent over in open chuckles, her gauntlet whooshed mere inches over his head.

'I'm sorry,' he apologised, belatedly realising that being set upon by a pack of four extremely powerful women was probably not going to add much to his already shortened life expectancy. 'Please don't hit me, Cassandra…'

'It's not that you pretend you are five!' Cassandra shouted, lodging her hand in the chest of his robes and yanking him straight. 'You _are_ five! Speak! Or, by the Maker…'

'She's fine,' Dorian said, taking the first breath that was not cut off by amusement. 'Veldrin is fine. She _was_ falsely accused – Cassandra, please do not hit me; you terrify me enough with that wrinkle inducing scowl that I am ready to admit to anything and then admit to admitting…Let's just move this unhappy crowd to the library, where you can inflict some intimate violence with no eye witnesses, if you will? Ladies?'

'In your presence, Dorian, I am starting to miss Varric,' Divine Victoria growled, letting him go, and thundering up the stairs first. Mae followed, throwing her hair over her shoulder in a dissatisfied huff; Leliana was next, after giving him a glance as sharp as any dagger. Morrigan simply met his glance and shook her head, biting the corner of her lower lip in amusement.

'She is the trickster's bride, isn't she?' the witch asked; for however much he felt the words were intended as weapon, Dorian found it in himself to smile.

'No,' he said, courteously extending his arm to aid Morrigan ascend. 'She's merely trying to be his match.'

Behind the closed doors and warded doors of the library, however, all sense of relaxation vanished.

'I apologise,' Dorian said, this time in earnest. 'I should not have done that.'

'Speak,' Cassandra prompted, still frowning deeply. 'What is this folly, now?'

'Misdirection,' Leliana replied, in Dorian's stead; the man leaned against the bookcase and nodded.

'In a sense, I believe it might have been wise of me not to let the mask slip – not even to you. Cassandra mounting a typically impassioned defense of Vel…hopefully, one that fell short of giving Radonis a black eye – would have been quite the asset.' The man said, slowly. 'I am still glad the news spread so quickly and so credibly that even Mae was worried.'

'You play with my delicate heart, fiends,' the Magistra replied, her eyes still shooting ice bolts. 'Cassius has blockaded the entirety of Minrathous and he is hunting for elves all over the city; I do not even wish to imagine what is happening to them. Of course I was worried.'

Dorian smiled wryly. 'He's also blockaded Quarinus, Perivantium and Vol Dorma,' he nodded, 'but it is not elves he is chasing. He will brutally and publically round up all that remain, of course, and he can be trusted to make the brutality part thoroughly credible, yet it is not what he is truly after.'

He took a deep breath, and looked to Leliana.

'I'm not going to like this,' the Nightingale sourly predicted.

'No,' Dorian replied, not bothering to apologise. 'Vel thought, and after a minute of consideration, I agreed – that extreme manipulation was needed to pull tens of thousands of mortals through the veil. His agents may have been creatures of great spiritual affinity, but those he took were not, so he must have thinned it…And,' he ended, with a shrug, 'we know very well by what means he can do that.'

Leliana breathed out hotly, and shook her head. Maevaris arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

'I don't,' the blonde woman said.

'Ancient magical widgets, what else?' Dorian answered. 'We encountered them all over Thaedas, in the year of the Inquisition; back then, they served us in strengthening the veil against the breach. It was not until much later that we realised they can actually manipulate the barrier both ways.'

'Hm,' Cassandra said. 'You do not think he has brought them _here?'_

'Either that, or some were already present,' the Magister replied. 'I still think they were planted, however, because the attacks were…'

'Pointed and centered,' Leliana sighed. 'Of course. Major population areas... If the artefacts had been distributed as randomly as they were in Thaedas, the elven disappearances might have occurred in random areas as well.'

'Which would have served this fickle former friend of yours little,' Mae reasoned. 'Had he started with twenty slaves here and ten there, we would have caught this very fast and stopped him before he reached the cities. Like this, the blow has been struck in the most defensible locations first…Piss,' she whispered, letting herself fall into an armchair. 'The man's audacity in mounting something of this scale, with no preparation…'

Dorian shrugged. 'Who knows if he's attempted this before or not? It is not as if five slaves disappearing from a mine along the Hundred Pillars would have caught our attention. If it was even reported, who knows under how many stacks of other seemingly pointless papers that one might be buried under. Eh,' the man sighed, 'so indeed…Cassius has blockaded all affected cities, and is now turning them upside down looking for these orbs, under the guise of wide reprisals against remaining elves – Vel's arrest…'

'Is just the loud front of that, I see. Good thinking,' Cassandra said. 'Maker,' she whispered. 'Do you think we have the most minor chance of recovering any? I mean…'

'The attempt is worthwhile,' Morrigan thoughtfully put in. 'If you started seeking before the Elvhen retreat…'

'Retreat?' Mae sneered.

'Yes, Magistra,' the witch haughtily replied. 'What do you think this is, other than Solas taking as many of the Elvhen out of the way of what he is planning to unleash upon _your_ tranquil world?'

Leliana frowned. 'Not now, Morrigan, if you please…So, Dorian…'

'Yes,' he nodded, 'we started before the _abductions_ ,' he hissed, in Morrigan's direction, 'ended. If we are lucky we may find at least one or two, and lock them away before he manages to spread them though the countryside.'

'I certainly hope so,' Maevaris said, softly. 'Minrathous will not crumble if cucumber soup is served warm for a week…the problems will only truly start once there is no coal to make the wrong soup on – if we cannot find these artefacts, the man will bring the Imperium to its knees in a month. Maker, we'll even help him. Every slave owner across the land will coral their elves into pens, like so many cows. He will not even need to spread out his artefacts, he'll just need to…Oh, Maker.'

'Why now?' Leliana asked. 'Why is Solas doing this, _now?'_

'Maybe the end time has come,' Cassandra said.

Leliana shook her head. 'I find it most suspicious the end time coincided with us telling Veldrin what we planned. This is no chance occurrence – our capture of Fen'Harel relied, in great detail, on his inability to control the veil over Tevinter. That idea is, as of tonight, shattered. He is spiting us, for he has learned of it, somehow, and the most likely source…'

'The most likely source is not Lavellan,' Morrigan said, with more calm than Dorian might have mustered. He sought and found the witch's glance, and she nodded, a gesture too brief to be noticed.

In turn, Maevaris straightened, crossed her legs, and royally placed her arms on the armrests of the chair she was in. The glance she threw Leliana was cold enough to transform the Western Approach into an arctic tundra. 'I barely know you, _mademoiselle,_ but I already think your reputation does you no justice – you are a far more unpleasant person than we were informed you were.'

'You also greatly overestimate the importance of your opinion, _Magister_ Tilani,' Leliana responded, smiling sweetly.

Dorian rolled his eyes in annoyance. 'Yes, yes,' he said. 'That is why I adore circular conversations – they happen so often they cannot be avoided, so one might as well enjoy. No matter what we speak of, we always, as if by magic, return to blame the elf and spot the deviant.'

He shook his head. 'Does it not occur to you, Leliana, that if Solas managed to get people close to you, and orchestrated this calamity, it is entirely likely that he saw Radonis delivering the eluvian you…misplaced?'

Leliana pursed her lips. 'It was a terrible mistake,' she calmly answered, 'and I take full responsibility for it…'

Dorian waved his hand to interrupt her.

'I am not assigning blame here,' he earnestly said. 'You cannot match the Imperium's intelligence infrastructure on our own territory. You are but one foreign woman, and as formidable as you are, I assure you Radonis has five of you in his back pocket…The only mistake you truly made, and are still making, is that in these cloak and dagger games of yours, you keep forgetting that knowing who to be suspicious of is as important as knowing who to trust.'

'He's right, Leliana,' Cassandra said, softly. 'Besides,' she followed, nervously scratching her head, 'you are disregarding…Andraste's mercy, I can't believe I am saying this,' she bitterly chuckled, 'the bloody wide implications this move will have in the material world – forget the fade, and the veil. The Imperial threat has always kept Thaedas' nations in some sort of balance…'

'The Imperium has stood between Thaedas and the Qun,' Maevaris added, with no little pride.

'That too,' the Divine unenthusiastically admitted. 'In crippling the Imperium, Solas will do away with all that; let's assume Orlais will be honourable. Let's assume Radonis will give in to Ferelden's demands and they will hastily sign an official peace agreement as well – it would be folly not to, now. But Nevarra,' she sighed, 'has no incentive to stay put. The Qun even less so.'

'A pack of coyotes will be unleashed 'pon the ailing dragon,' Morrigan said, managing not to sound overly cheerful. 'And once they have ripped at it enough for it to be mortally injured, the lion and the Mabari will see sense in joining the fray, lest the coyotes clear the bones of all meat. The unchanging world will cripple itself long before Fen'Harel moves an inch further; as legends say, 'tis by this sort of ruse that he sealed both the Forgotten Ones and the Evanuris. He faced neither head on, and unlike you, he has endless time to watch your chaos bloom.'

Leliana sighed, and pressed her fingers to her temple. 'All that may be true,' she said, softly. 'Regardless of what is happening, regardless of the timing, this only means Fen'Harel has to be stopped, and our plan is in tatters, while Veldrin has placed herself not only out of _his_ reach, but also out of ours. Thus, tell me, Dorian,' she followed, looking to the man with narrowed eyes, 'when you will visit your pretty spouse in whatever accommodation the Imperium sees fit to give those accused of high treason, will you be giving her a flower basket weaved of immortal wood? A vial of mercury, a shard of glass or some poisons, to end her misery before she's burned alive?'

He threw his head back and laughed. 'I would have thought you'd be grateful for the second eluvian, by now, Leliana. Perhaps you should sing Vel praises for covering _your_ tracks.' Dorian said. 'I fear Vel will have to forego the immense comfort of my presence and just make do with your visits, however,' he added, his chuckles fading to a wry smile, 'as I am suspected of the same crime, and, until my name is cleared or it is decided that I too shall burn, I will be under strict house arrest.'

He waited a second to deliver the last blow.

'In Quarinus,' he ended, dryly.

'What?' Maevaris asked, darting to her feet. 'That is insane!'

'Is it?' Dorian shrugged, still smiling wide. 'Then I am sorry to tell you this, Mae, but you will find the same arrest orders I am under waiting for you at home.'

Maevaris narrowed her eyes, but it was Leliana who spoke – coolly, calmly, in a sweet dulcet tone.

'What are you playing at, Dorian?' she inquired.

'Nothing,' he replied, greatly enjoying the hardness in the Nightingale's eyes, and wishing that Veldrin had been by his side, to share the moment. 'My wife, and Mae's best friend and close political ally is the Imperium's most dangerous criminal. It is virtually impossible that _we_ had no knowledge of her actions, and even if we did not, _we_ have been criminally lax. Still, there is no proof of either until the full truth is extracted from Vel by means of rack and hot poker, and Radonis sees fit not to tear the Magisterium asunder and start a war in Senate until that proof surfaces.'

Mae met his glance, then looked away in anger, and though he did not believe the Chant, Dorian prayed whatever higher power he believed existed that his friend would not make any mistakes now – that she would see the position they were in, and replace her great sincere concern with a lesser one.

'I bet this made Cassius jump for joy,' Maevaris said, dryly.

'Not until we left Radonis' chambers,' Dorian admitted. 'He did do something that might have resembled a jig, had he had a sense of rhythm, when we were in the corridor.'

'No wonder,' the Magistra said, pressing her entwined hands on her stomach, as if in great pain. 'This sets the Lucerni back ten years…Whose idea was this?' Mae asked, in a hot breath. 'Radonis'? Cassius'?'

'Mine,' Dorian simply answered, sustaining her gaze, despite the fact that the storm of pain within it caused him great sorrow, in turn. 'I am sorry, Mae,' he whispered.

The blonde bit her lower lip, and shook her head. 'I am sorry too, Dorian, but I am going to fight this tooth and nail…'

'Do so,' he nodded. 'Unlike the armed detail who is waiting for me outside and whose patience I am beginning to try, you have two days before you will be forcibly removed to Quarinus as well. If you choose to fight the arrest order in Senate, do so. In fact,' he attentively said, 'really fight it, in Senate. It will not be rescinded, but the distraction...'

 _We need you, Mae,_ he thought. _I agreed with you before_ , on the danger, on the madness, _but tonight has shown me Vel is right - we need you._

'What are we to do then?' Cassandra snarled. 'I am not gifted for theater and foolish games such as these, nor can I sit idle...'

'I won't suggest we do nothing, your worship,' Leliana said, with calm that sent chills down Dorian's spine. 'We shall passionately defend our _friend,_ and see to the completion of the accords, which are now truly becoming crucial. I trust Dorian has no qualms with letting us use his mansion as we so do?'

'None at all,' Dorian shrugged, feeling more tense by the minute. 'Just be wary of my mother, she tends to get stabby after a certain point in the night. And, with that…' he said, straightening, 'I should really go about the business of getting arrested while fully sober. Never liked that part of the plan,' he sighed.

He turned to leave and took a deep breath; Morrigan's chuckles turned his exhalation into ice.

'On such a sour note old friends part,' the witch melodiously said. 'A wind of cheer I feel I must entice…'

'Morrigan,' Dorian said, meeting her glance and swallowing dry – if she spoke now, he thought, they were undone. With Mae, he'd have time to clarify, yet with the witch…

'It is but a good thought, Pavus,' Morrigan followed, odd warmth in her eyes. 'A man with endless time would not hurry to act, and on such a grand stage. If Fen'Harel is moving, he must feel threat; whatever means he's used to learn of your plans, he thinks that they might work.'

'Maker willing,' Cassandra sadly spoke; her eyes went as wide as Dorian's as Mae advanced, and kissed him fully on the lips, putting her arms about his shoulders and squeezing him tightly.

'I'll see you on the way to Seheron1,' Mae whispered in his ear. 'Expect pain.'

Never had a threat sounded so sweet, and Dorian had to seriously fight the urge of kissing her back.

* * *

1 That's where Aurelian Titus' old playground is. We shall be seeing Seheron, whether we like to or not.

* * *

We promised we would return, and so we have - thank you all for reading, fave-ing, though it's comments we do adore. We do, we do ^^

Up Next - Vel makes the best out of being falsely accused.


	14. The Things We Lost in the Fire

_And so they joined in secret, telling none_

 _Who were not of the temples of their designs._

 _And in Minrathous, in the heart of the Archon a sliver of fear grew,_

 _Stabbing like a wound. Though he knew not why._

 ** _Silence 1:17_**

* * *

'Your grace,' Veldrin Pavus greeted, half looking over her shoulder.

The Archon sat by her side, not knowing whether he felt as if he felt as a half defeated Imperium facing an enemy, or simply as a man half defeated, seeking an ally.

Together, they looked upon the dance of the flames in the fireplace reflected in small mirror, for a still, silent moment. One of his grey cats ascended Veldrin Pavus' shoulder, scratching her on his way up, but rubbing his nose against her cheek once he had arrived; the elf laughed, ignoring the pain, and gathered the cat who was not brave enough to jump, but was rubbing herself on her shins, in her lap.

'There you go, _da'len_ ,' she said, caressing the less brave cat's ears. 'Not all first steps have to be leaps.'

The creature looked up at her with questioning, green eyes, then settled and curled, beginning to purr; Radonis tiredly smiled.

'They like you,' the human noted.

'They are merely inquisitive of whether I like them, your grace,' Veldrin answered.

The male cat leapt from her shoulders to his master's shoulders, and Radonis collected him into his arms with practiced swiftness. 'It is said,' the Archon spoke, slowly, 'that animals can sense the good in people. It is also said,' he followed, in bitter irony, 'that _your_ people have a superior connection to the natural world.'

'I constantly have to refrain from making flowers bloom with my song,' Veldrin answered, with a subdued chuckle. 'I hate to make humans feel inferior. Your grace,' she said, 'I know that you are keeping me from Cassius, and if my gratitude to you could be placed in words, I would speak them without restraint.'

'If I thought that such words might bring me to fully trust you, I would insist upon them,' the man said, measuring her through the corner of his eyes; she was no beauty to his standards, but she was easy to look at. The patterns on her face actually enhanced her, for they brought balance to an otherwise too rounded face…

'Your…' he began, discretely pointing to his own cheek, knowing there was a word for her markings, but that he'd never bothered learning it or remembering it. 'I am led to understand they have a meaning?'

'Vallaslin is the word,' she answered. 'As for their meaning,' Veldrin followed, in a sigh, 'it varies by who you ask. Myself and…We had to agree to disagree on the matter.' She said, not needing to speak any names. 'Yes, Magister Cassius is correct in what he has warned you of. My _intimacy_ with the enemy's methods is not a result of lore studies. You grace already knew that, however.'

'The entire continent knows it, Magistra Pavus,' Radonis replied, managing a smile. 'I find it distasteful,' he sincerely added, staring into the fire, and knowing, beyond doubt, that she had misconstrued his words; her fade imprint was so strong that he could actually feel it growing cold. 'I find it distasteful for such things to be constantly brought up,' the Archon clarified. 'Those who do insist upon commenting on them forget that affection has caused many a war, but ended as many – they also forget that lovers may turn into bitter enemies, over delicate nuances that would leave people who are not dedicated to each other indifferent. Such as, say, the significance of a tattoo.'

Veldrin nodded.

'It is not that that causes my mistrust,' the man followed. 'Nor is it the shape of your ears; ironically, if I could catch you with a lie, I would be far more at ease.'

'That is a predicament we share, I think, your grace,' the elf said; Radonis bitterly chuckled.

'Perhaps so,' he agreed. 'Yet the consequences of our shared predicament might be very far from equal.'

'We only have one world to lose, your grace,' Veldrin replied with admirable calm. 'And we all can only die once. Though,' she added, smiling wryly, 'what immediately precedes death might count a little.'

'Indeed. For you and me both,' Radonis sighed. 'I do not mean to threaten you,' he followed, drawing a deep breath. 'I have committed two grave mistakes, one stemming from the other, for I did not believe this mage is as powerful as you had described until tonight; I simply thought of the political opportunity his specter presented. I thus outplayed my hand and half sabotaged your plans.'

She gently shook her head, distractedly caressing the cat in her lap. 'The eluvian was a small part of it, your grace, and the one we can still remedy. It is the veil manipulation that has me worried; very few knew of it, and none of those who knew would speak of it thoughtlessly. Unless he guessed it by my presence here…Someone, in our immediate circle of trust has made a mistake, and all are people I would trust with my life.'

'Myself included?' the man asked, arching an eyebrow.

'I do not need to trust you with my life,' the elf answered, again, with a smile. 'You already have it.'

'Oh,' the Archon laughed, 'I'd heard that you do well in Publicanium, but now I see that I should have come watch - I can also tell why Marquise Briala does not hold you overly dear; you _are_ a player, and you did not waste your entire life learning to play their _grand jeu_.'

'In truth,' Veldrin shrugged, 'I don't think of myself as a player. I am simply naturally polite, but guarded, and I scarcely think either quality should take a lifetime to master; seems a bit of a waste of formative years. Besides,' she added, 'as your grace noted, honesty is a great perceived threat: we assume _all_ people lie. The more honest the person, the more confused those around them become – like a liar caught with too many fibs, the honest person goes against our natural assumptions and we fear them as much as we fear the inveterate deceiver. One serves in keeping people cautious and off balance as well as the other.'

'What books did you read under those winged ships of yours?' Radonis asked, finding that he was now smiling in earnest. 'Half the Magisterium would have a stroke to hear you speak thus.'

'My Tevene is not perfect, but it is hardly that bad,' the woman giggled, gracefully accepting the compliment. 'My Qunlat, however, is cringe inducing; forget the diphthongs, I can never manage those barked out consonants of theirs.'

'You are not what I imagined,' he said.

'I have heard this before,' Veldrin replied, with a strange, sorrowful undertone.

'Your people are not what any of us could or even would imagine,' the Archon said, his voice trailing away to thought.

'I doubt it would change much if you did, your grace,' she softly made response; there was no edge to the words, which made them all the more poignant.

He fell silent, for a brief moment, knowing she was right, but hating to admit it to even himself – elves, he thought, had been about him his entire life, to be seen and not heard, ever present, ever useful. The dimensions of his personal reliance, of the Imperium's reliance on them had never really sprung to his conscious mind, and now, that it had been laid bare before him, he understood, with painful clarity, that such addiction to an unknown… _nation_ , Radonis belatedly admitted to himself, had been a gaping hole in the Imperium's armour that had gone unnoticed for centuries.

Further…

Further, he thought, allowing his mind to drift…

'Perhaps you are right,' Radonis said, blankly; he sighed. 'I valued Flavius, my…'

'Your secretary, your grace,' the woman nodded, glancing at him questioningly. 'I've known him for as long as I've known you.'

Of course she had, the man realised; to her, he would not have been an invisible implement, or something akin to an animated side table, as he had been to the vast majority of those who passed through his study.

'He was a mage,' Radonis followed. 'I valued him greatly, never mistreated him, and trusted him far more than I trusted any of my Altus. He has travelled outside of the Imperium, under my orders, many times, and I never had a single twinge of doubt that he would betray me or not return…I never freed him,' the human said, shaking his head, 'and now I wonder why.'

He said the words, a lie she could thankfully not catch – he knew precisely why he'd not freed Flavius, and it was precisely because he'd been so greatly valued…So unlike the rest. If freed, he would have left his former master, and the Imperium, probably forged a life for himself elsewhere.

Maybe in Rivain. Flavius had loved Rivain; he'd even had the daring to bring his master an ironic gift from there, a delicate, hand carved bone ash tray, and an equally beautiful, thin pipe. Radonis had these in his study at home, in a locked drawer, not because he was ashamed to accept a gift from his slave, but simply because he had officially renounced the devil's weed twenty years before, and his wife held him to that sacrament more than to the vows of their marriage.

Flavius still indulged, from time to time – on bad days and long nights, the Archon of Tevinter let him smoke in the office, too, not daring to break his promise, but simply taking in the smoke through his nose, in memory of the discarded pleasure. They'd started smoking together when they were both sixteen; they'd been caught, of course, for they had borrowed more of his father's tobacco than was wise. Radonis had been given a stern talking to for fraternising with the servants. Flavius had been flogged.

Radonis had not let go of a man whose absence he now poignantly felt because he'd known however generous or kind he was, no matter in how much regard he held him, any sense of equality or kinship was a one sided, comfortable lie, conjured only in the human's mind. And thus, he'd done what all men wish to do, in their heart of hearts: held a dear and trusted friend tethered to themselves because he _could_.

'It is a blow,' he forced himself to follow, 'that Gladius remains while Flavius has gone. He was a mage, he could have resisted, but he didn't. I never let myself imagine he hated…Do you hate us?' he asked; it was too brutally phrased, yet there was no other way of asking, or shaking himself free of the drift; still if the woman who sat beside him lied, when she softly shook her head, she was a consummate actress, for he fully believed her.

'I find it hard to single out a _you_ that I should hate,' she responded, slowly. 'I have met good humans and bad humans; city elves who were brutes, and city elves who were kind; Dalish clans who lived so far away from the real world that were a danger to themselves and all around them, Elvhen or not – honest Orlesians, polite Fereldens…You mention Marquise Briala, but I have as much in common with her as you do with the Pirate Queen of Antiva – I am not ashamed to admit that I am far fonder of Cassandra, who represents an institution I loathe, than of Briala who is, to me, loathsome all by herself. There is no _you,_ just as there is no _us_.'

He thoughtfully gazed at her. 'That is well said. Difficult to accept.'

'I do not blame Tevinter for the fall of Elvhenan more than I would blame a wolf for setting upon a deer injured by another hunter's trap,' Veldrin replied. 'It is cruel and bloody, but it is the way of the world, and it is at least honest.'

'Is it not the same now, however?' Radonis asked, narrowing his eyes. 'The parts of wolf and deer have changed, yet…'

She coldly laughed. 'Not even remotely, your grace. In terms of a hunter's path, what Solas is doing is hunting a bear by poisoning a river full of fish. It is unhinged and wasteful, a type of action that most Dalish would like to attribute to humans alone. He cannot free the people by imposing his will on them, and he cannot uplift them by robbing them of the little spirit they still have…The spirit _he_ denied us all of in the first place.'

'There is a staggering hypocrisy in that,' she said, no longer smiling, 'akin to the hypocrisy of Denerim willingly expulsing their elves to Tevinter thirty years ago, in the wake of their plague, but still turning their noses at slavery.'

'I don't think money officially exchanged hands on that occasion,' Radonis noted; it was academic, and he knew it.

'No, of course not – they gave them to you for free, as they were worthless,' the elf replied, meeting his glance with an unwise frown. He found it reassuring that the mask did slip in ire. 'I am not your enemy, your grace,' Veldrin ended, looking away.

The Archon breathed in, deeply. 'I do not feel as if were, no, but I cannot let myself feel you are a friend, either,' he said, tiredly leaning back in his chair.

'A false friend would assure you that they are one. I'll merely tell your grace what you already know: friendship is fickle, common goals are not.'

'How true,' he humourlessly snickered. 'And it is true that you are not a player of the Orlesian game; you're simply frightfully good at deception, in your honesty. You do make mistakes, however,' he warned, with some warmth.

'Your grace?' she queried.

'Friendship is fickle, common goals are not, you say,' Radonis replied, biting his lower lip in amusement. 'You are using me to hide from Fen'Harel, but you are also using me to hide from your former allies in the south. I think that Sister Nightingale has cooled towards you, but the Divine bears you impressive affection, and you are deceiving her as well. And so, if you can turn your back on life-long friends and allies, I can only guess that you no longer share a goal.'

'We've merely stopped sharing a path,' Veldrin cautiously said, and to his eyes, she was a woman negotiating her way along a very narrow ledge. 'They'd not approve of mine, and theirs is compromised.'

He nodded and shrugged. 'I did not think a tenth of what you said of this mage was true; the little we know about the Dalish mostly centers on their gift for embellishing the past, and…' the man exhaled, causing the cat in his arms to bristle in alarm. 'with the eluvian, I simply thought to warn both you and Dorian not to attempt deceit, while reminding you that I am truly in your corner…And then, it takes something like this eve to make us all see how small the stage we are playing on is. Play no more,' he said, once more meeting her glance. 'I truly do not wish to threaten you, Magistra Pavus – it is why we are, here, speaking, and why I have not handed you to Cassius, who is itching to get the truth from you in other ways. This will earn me no friends.'

'I know, your grace,' the elf replied. 'I am deeply grateful.'

'I do not wish you to be grateful, or polite. I wish you to tell me the truth of your path.' Radonis said, thinking of a report he'd willfully buried under piles of others – for a heartbeat, he felt her coming to the verge of doing just that, and slipping off the narrow ledge she was walking. She told the truth, without slipping.

'I shall need your grace to promise me immunity,' Veldrin said, at the end of a long moment of silence. Radonis frowned, for the first time feeling truly confused.

'The charges against you are a sham, Veldrin Pavus,' he said. 'We jointly agreed upon them; either we win, and that is revealed, or you die, in which case there is nothing to pardon.'

'That is not what I am asking your grace to pardon,' the woman slowly replied, making him feel as if she needed his hand to stay on her ledge.

'Go on,' he cautiously said, then listened, in attention, amazement, awe, and finally, awed amusement, to a plan so grim, outlandish and practical, one so out of tune with everything he had ever imagined a southern mage - and an elf, at that – would countenance, it could only have been the true one; he laughed, at the end, for he could not contain himself, not even though the woman before him was only now truly frightened of him, precisely when she should not have been.

'Manaveris Dracona1,' he said, shaking his head, 'You are asking the Archon of Tevinter to a prioripardon you for using blood magic against a man who is about to destroy the Imperium in one week? While Magisters who hold the tails of my robe use it casually, on innocent people, just to be able to carry the tails of my robe?'

'I was led to believe that…' Veldrin whispered, her voice fearful; the cat in her arms had awoken at the woman's tension, and she glanced at him in reproach, through eyes that had the same shape as the elf's, a different colour, yet were still disproportionately large for the features they were set on.

'That _I_ should set the weakling Templars on you at the first mention of this, yes. Who led you to believe that, pray tell?' Radonis laughed, pressing his index to his forehead. 'Gentle, intellectually arrogant Dorian, and righteous, politically cautious Tilani, I expect – of course; one is so powerful because of the very system of lineage he seeks to eschew that he never needed blood magic, and the other has spent so much of himself having to appear beyond reproach because he perceives his mere existence is reproachful, that he can't chance setting one foot off the fine line he walks. Such…neutral sources you pick for insight to my mind, Magistra Pavus. I am disappointed, in you and in them. Both. Tell them that, when you meet them on Seheron.'

'Your grace, if not for me, then for Dorian and Mae there must be pardon; they both opposed the ritual I intend, and I fully hope they will survive it,' she said, lowering her glance.

'I've no intention of using this against you, or them,' the man responded, shaking his head.

'But Magister Cassius might,' Veldrin said, again more bravely than he'd expected.

'Cassius will have a say in this when he does something that I find marginally useful,' Radonis replied, in a colder and more revealing tone than he might have liked. 'You'll have your pardon, if it sets your mind at ease, and I shan't make your work any harder; in fact, if I were a decade younger and the nation was not crumbling around me, I would personally join you. As is,' he followed, sweeping the cat off his knees, to stand and walk to his bookcase, 'I have things that you might find more immediately useful than a pardon. Marginally,' he ended, with a wide grin.

He pulled on the wooden imitation of a book, causing the case to move aside, screeching from all of its hinges; displeased by being summarily dismissed, his cat sought to follow inside the room that had just opened, yet a mere glance at what it contained caused it to curl and hiss, all its hairs standing up. The sight of the crimson glowing somnaborium caused Veldrin, who had rushed to his side in turn, to cover her lips with both hands.

'Your grace,' she breathed, 'I…'

'I hope you are suitably contrite,' Radonis said, strolling to the object's side, and passing his hand over its surface, causing it to flare.

'This is dangerous, your grace; if we fail to control it, and bring it into Solas' presence…' Veldrin whispered; the man simply shook his head.

'This is not a focus orb,' he said. 'It is merely a Glory Age Tevinter reconstruction, and I am assured it has but a fraction of the functionality. It is nonetheless similar to what Aurelian Titus used in _his_ ritual…Come closer, it will not spontaneously leap into your hand and rip the sky asunder,' Radonis chuckled, watching her approach and shyly pass her fingers over the iron sphere's surface in turn.

The flares she caused blinded him for a moment, so he lifted his hand to shield his eyes, and watched her circle it, in fascination.

'I never knew that Aurelian Titus' work…' the elf questioningly began.

'The stage on which we all dance is truly small, Veldrin Pavus,' the Archon said, leaning against the frame of the hidden doorway. 'I did not know what Aurelian Titus was doing until just now, that _you_ have explained it…The man was a mediocre mage, had no lineage, no personal wealth, and yet he obtained a Magisterial seat and attained conciliatus in two short years. The former Archon favoured him, unexplainably, which, as you might suspect, was not particularly to my liking.'

'Of course not, your grace,' Veldrin smiled; Radonis smiled in return, then shrugged lightly.

'For a time, his unusual ascent seemed unstoppable, so, I gathered unusual means of my own – he disappeared before I needed to employ them.' He simply stated.

She looked over her shoulder, with the sincerely disappointed glance of a young child. 'So you do not know how to use this, either,' she said; he bit his lower lip in thought.

'Not for the purpose for which it was intended, no,' Radonis said. 'In theory,' he explained, 'the somnaboriae should enhance a somniari's control over their power, but I am not a dreamer myself. It has not been sitting here gathering dust for a decade, though – I've used it as focus multiple times, and yes,' he chuckled, watching her eyes light up, 'I have the channeling diagrams, and you are welcome to them…The second thing I would gift you with is alas, not as convenient.' Radonis said, stealing his own sense of warmth.

'Nor,' he followed, looking into her eyes, 'will these weapons be something you would lightly use on one of your own. Come,' he said, extending his arm to invite her back before the fire place; he closed the secret door behind him with too slow gestures, and hesitated before sitting down. Still, he could not afford to waste time, thus…

It was his turn to navigate a narrow ledge, and watch her pale at each word, not – as a human might have – at hearing of things that still lingered from the time before the very first Blight. Not as a mage might have, in shame of what their powers had wrought, no, though perhaps both those tales might have been fearsome enough.

When Veldrin's eyes clouded with sorrow, he knew she was not thinking of _those_ past histories, and he had the sensation that by telling her of the weapons the first followers of Old Gods had used against the last of her people he'd caused Arlathan to burn again, before her eyes; he took no satisfaction in her pain. He simply recounted facts, because facts were louder than feelings, and questions, and doubts.

Louder than the question whether if he had let his friend go, he might still have had him.

'Whether you believe me or not,' he sincerely said, at the end of his account, 'I am sorry to cause you hurt by recounting all this…'

'It was a war,' the woman whispered. 'We had our weapons; you had…yours.'

Radonis bit his lower lip, and nodded. 'I will accept those words as the only statement an uneasy ally can offer at a time like this, and I am grateful for your restraint and logic, though they must cost you dearly. The truth, as we both see it, is that no one on Thaedas has faced the likes of Fen'Harel since the fall of Arlathan. Perhaps by then, the Elvhen Empire was a shadow of its former self already, and your magic was already weakened…'

'Still,' Veldrin slowly said, 'it would be the closest shadow of what we are about to face here, and if so…Yet, your grace,' she whispered, 'the Old Gods are dead; their priesthood vanquished, their dragons, gone, their rituals lost, their relics scattered…'

The Archon shrugged. 'The latter parts are true, of course; I would not venture a guess on the former. You tell me that the essence of Urthemiel, at least, survived the slaying of the Archdemon in the Ferelden blight. We cannot know about the others, and even I would not venture to think that far – to you, I can light heartedly confess that I am no Andrastian either.'

He stood, to walk towards the window and gaze outside. 'I am not even a theist, in any sense of the word,' he whispered, mostly to himself. 'If this…pseudo-god of yours were not so determined to uproot the world, there would be none more joyous than I to see the Chantry on its knees…No disrespect intended for your friend, the Southern Divine, she is a remarkable woman, in her way, but…'

Radonis breathed in and out, deeply. 'What I do believe in is magic, Magistra Pavus, thus the continued existence of the Old Gods…even their origin, or whether they were actual Gods in the first place, concerns me in no way; it is perhaps more awe-inspiring to call and orb The Eye of Dumat, or wield a sword that bears the name of Dumat's Spine, then to call these things simple, mage created and mage enchanted items…and that, Magistra Pavus, works in our favour. These relics will function regardless of whether Dumat ever existed. They functioned against the mages of Arlathan then, and they might still do so now. If they can be acquired.'

'If they can even be found,' the woman said.

He turned about, and looked her in the eyes. 'No,' he sighed, 'the finding part is easy; we know where most of them lie, either hidden, or as guarded dangerous relics, or, simply as book stoppers on the shelves of some unsuspecting Nevarran merchant with a questionable taste in art. As you can probably imagine, once the Imperial Chantry was established, the priesthood of the new and only God were no less predatory than the old clergymen, nor were the Old Gods' temples spared pillage and vandalism. Hessarian…Hessarian could do little to stop this; whether his conversion was sincere or not equally bears little relevance.'

'His political position,' Veldrin reasoned, 'with an occupying army at the gates of Minrathous, and with a frightened Magisterium, suddenly robbed of their faiths, on his back, allowed him for little room to manouver.'

'And so he chose the most immediate enemy, hoping the Magisterium would understand that the barbarian horde would not so easily scatter,' Radonis nodded, 'and that there was little the crushed Imperium could do but half surrender. This does not mean he prevented priests and acolytes from salvaging what holy objects they could, or did not track those stolen; most will, of course, have been lost to the ages, but some records of others exist, and are in my possession. The Grey Wardens hold some, the Southern Circles, others, the Chantry even more, yet…My hands are tied,' he earnestly ended. 'I am in no position to be caught red-handed sending agents all over Thaedas _now_ , when I am once again, all but crushed…I cannot antagonise the Chantry…In other words, I can tell you, with some certainty, where these objects might be, yet I cannot move a finger in helping you retrieve them, without risking all my already fragile political ties.'

'Nor,' he concluded, lowering his glance, 'can I underestimate your distaste at having the weapons that caused the fall of your people once again used against one who would restore them.'

'It is a harsh proposition, your grace,' the elf said, softly. 'I…'

'Veldrin,' the Archon said, gently but sternly, 'I understand your hesitation, but if you cannot, do this, _I_ have no choice but risk finding these on my own then saddling you with Cassius, who will have no reservations in using them. Weigh this, Magistra Pavus, weigh it well – you've shared your intentions and now I have shared mine; I would rather not force your hand, and I have a myriad of ways of doing so.'

'I would prefer not to employ them,' he followed, 'because no matter how detached you would like to appear, killing a man you once loved cannot be easy. I like you,' Radonis earnestly said. 'It is enough that he _must_ die. Don't let him die at the hands of a man who would take great pleasure in it.'

She looked away and swallowed dry; the female cat jumped back on her knees, finding its courage. The elf found hers too, and nodded.

'Tell Dorian of all this,' she said. Radonis expected she would bury her face in her hands, but the elf merely picked up the cat who'd found her courage, and held it tightly to her chest. The cat did not squirm or scrape to make herself free, and Radonis once more turned away to gaze outside the window, a man and an Imperium half defeated, but still fighting.

He had not smoked in twenty years. He knew he'd smoke tonight.

* * *

1 Long live the dragons. I think that Radonis is just too polite to say Vishante Kaffas in front of a lady.

* * *

Oh, Solas is in trouble here :) Sadly, he has enemies who are polite and generally nice people, and enemies of his enemies who are not his friends, as we are about to find out on Wednesday.

Thank you for reading!


	15. The Enemy of My Enemy

_To the Watchman of Night, and the Forgewright of Fire,_

 _To the Appraiser of Slavery, and the Augur of Mystery,_

 _And last of all to the Madman of Chaos._

 _The words of Silence were revealed._

 ** _Silence 1:14_**

* * *

'Bitch!' Cassius screamed. 'Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch!'

The Mabari barked, loudly, then stopped chasing some imaginary foe around the chamber, ran to the window to place its front paws on the windowsill and howl madly at the crescent moon.

'This cannot stand!' the Magister shouted, to cover the racket. 'This cannot stand, you hear me? I shall not let this go unpunished, I swear to you!'

'Your excellence,' Gladius dared, shirking in a corner and not being able to determine whether he was more terrified of the howling hound or of his former master – for both seemed to be foaming at the mouth rabid, 'perhaps his grace Radonis…'

'What, Gladius? What!' Cassius shouted, turning his blood shot eyes on his former slave, and making the man all but melt into the door behind him. 'Do you also now possess some sort of insight into his mind that I do not? Or perhaps it is not that!' the Magister barked, on the exact same tone as his unwanted, frenzied pet. 'Perhaps Radonis has only ever possessed the half-brain of an elf, which is why _you_ and that Pavus bitch understand him so well!'

'That woman belongs in the deepest, darkest cell we have, but no – he has her sealed three ways in his study, while he sends _me_ to fetch…'

The dog spun on himself, gave a short, excited bark at the word and rushed at the human mage, wagging its entire body in unbridled enthusiasm, and cutting Cassius rant short.

'…shiny elven balls,' the Magister ended, in a voice strangled by shock; it was indeed hard to determine whether that was what he had been truly been tasked with, or it had been some sort of expletive. Gladius reckoned it was a little of both.

'And did we find, any, erm…' the elven mage dared, hoping that the many parchments he held to his chest would perhaps protect him, but knowing from experience that they likely would not.

'What?' Cassius shouted.

'Shiny elven balls?' the elf whispered, in a tiny, terrified voice – as he'd suspected, the parchments provided no shield, and he was struck across the face twice, hard. Still, it was for the best, Gladius bitterly reckoned, running his tongue along the inside of his mouth to determine whether all his teeth were still in place.

Two slaps now were much preferable to a proper beating later, and they did seem to calm Cassius down significantly.

'Yes,' the Magister snarled, in a considerably more controlled tone of voice. 'We did find three in Minrathous and six in overall, but of how many…'

The human sighed deeply, and sat behind his desk with his face in his hands, allowing his secretary to relax a little; at least he'd have time to brace before the next slap came.

'Then, perhaps the savage…' Gladius hesitantly said.

'Why are you still speaking as if someone cared for your opinion?' the human asked, looking up and shaking his head.

'I apologise, your excellence,' the elf replied, lowering his glance.

Cassius sighed once more, and there was a moment of silence; even the blasted dog settled in his corner. 'I know she knows what she's talking about,' the Magister said at long length. 'But this presents two problems to me and _my_ office, Gladius, which you are too short sighted to acknowledge.'

'The first and most important problem,' Cassius thoughtfully followed, 'is that _I know_ she is feeding us this information in fragmented pieces; this slows retaliation efforts to the pace she and her fool of a husband set – a century of her permanence in Tevinter will not convince me she has our best interests in mind. No elf ever could.'

'Your excellence,' Gladius whimpered, 'I have…'

'You have been properly reared and understand your place,' Cassius sneered, 'but the only reason why I can't have you roasting in the cells with the others is that would decrease _my_ credibility as well, fool – and I can scarcely afford that, because, you see, if the southern savage does intend to earnestly fight this fight at our side, she _will_ make Magistra, and will give that absurd Tilani creature and her accursed Lucerni another seat, in Senate – and they are bloody approaching a third, already…'

'His grace Radonis would never do that,' Gladius said, with bile of his own.

The Magister looked up, sneering. 'I don't know, Gladius,' he responded, each of his words a lash. 'You and your fellow Liberati must have some hope of an elven elevation _eventually_ happening, else you would not still be scurrying along the Senate's corridors like so many hungry mice chasing scraps.'

'One dares not hope so high,' the elf said, knowing that he had paled and that his former owner was greatly enjoying it. 'I am already grateful that your excellence retained me in his service, and not…'

'Sent you to rot somewhere along the Hundred Pillars, yes,' Cassius said, dryly. 'Keep that in mind…So you see,' the Magister sighed, leaning back in his chair and analysing his fingertips, 'I am in a very unpleasant position of damned if I do, and damned if I do not interfere with this woman, whom I regard as a threat to all of Tevinter's legacy, and who has already greatly interfered with…Yes, well, you know _that_ part; if her Inquisition had not stood in our way, _you_ might have had a Liberati Magister by now.'

The elf nodded. 'I am well aware of that, your excellence,' he expressionlessly said. 'Her meddling has caused us all much grief. If…If I may,' he pleadingly said, 'have you informed his grace Radonis of what Altus Hadrian has…erm, shared?'

Cassius smirked. 'The report has been on his desk since yesterday morning, but he shows no signs of having read it; but for tonight, I might have thought he's biding his time and watching those two traitors before he pounces, yet more and more I am convinced…'

He looked to the side, with the expression of a man who was about to spit. 'I am starting to believe he wants this creature dead as well, and that fills me with rage, Gladius. You understand? Rage!' he bellowed, to emphasize the point, though the elf was shaking like a leaf and no emphasis was needed. 'Not only has this _other_ elven menace attempted to toy with Lord Corypheus,' the Magister whispered, 'but now he attacks us head on, and his bitch is fighting tooth and nail to make sure that every last hope of restoration – of _our_ , glorious restauration - is buried…'

'…while his grace Radonis does nothing to stop it,' Gladius agreed, gritting his teeth. 'I understand your excellence is disheartened, and,' he followed, hotly, 'I am assured you will not be the only one, once those true of heart understand the truth of the Archon's actions. If gathered in the Archon's presence, they may perhaps impress upon him the dimensions of his error.'

The Magister cranked his nose. 'You know,' he thoughtfully uttered, 'sometimes, randomly, you do give me reason to think clothing and feeding you is not a complete waste…There _is_ an upside to this,' he reasoned, sounding content. 'With Tilani and Pavus under house arrest in Quarinus or committing suicide on Seheron, or whatever it is they intend to do, the Lucerni are publically disgraced, which gives me strengthened control over both Senate and concilliarum. Temporarily, but it should serve; Radonis is currently presiding over the greatest cataclysm since the First Blight. He can oppose me, but he cannot oppose us all. Hm, good.'

Gladius managed a half smile, hoping, perhaps for reassurance that the perpetual threat of being sent to the Hundred Pillars had been staved off for another month, and that Cassius would say as much. No such thing was forthcoming.

'Go walk this beast,' the Magister ordered, waving towards the Mabari. 'I'll have a list of names for you by the time you get back – and don't come back until it has emptied its bowels fully...'

'Yes, your excellence,' Gladius said, once more lowering his glance and swallowing dry. 'Your excellence…'

'You're now boring me, elf,' Cassius said, with a terrible scowl.

'I…I apologise, I beg your patience for but a moment longer,' the elven mage said, bowing. 'An old friend of ours, whose name is maybe too menial to come to your excellence's mind, may be a great value for the initial meeting of those who still wish that our Imperium be great again.'

There was a spark in Cassius eye, but, yet again, no recognition was granted.

'She would have come to mind, Gladius,' the Magister said. 'How fares Calpernia?'

'Forgotten by all but those very close,' Gladius humbly said. 'She too…'

'Has a great stake in this,' Cassius muttered. 'I am well aware of it. What do you want with her? I'm not about to raise her once more; her hour is done.'

'I am your humble servant,' the elf said, 'and it is perhaps true that her opportunity was lost, yet she has some knowledge that the assembled Magisters you shall gather might like to partake in.'

'Such as?' the Magister asked, arching an eyebrow.

'Such as the fact that Archon Radonis' unfortunate attitude towards restoring our rightful legacy is not recent, and that in fact, he has been working against the Venatori and Lord Corypheus for quite a long time. Long before the face painted savage and her Southern Chantry allies even knew of our goals.'

'And you know this, how?' Cassius inquired, sitting up in obvious interest.

'Many a night have I and Calpernia spoken of this, and deplored our ill fortunes.' Gladius said. 'If it pleases you, it would perhaps be for the best if you spoke to her, directly…'

'Very well,' Cassius said. 'Have her fetched. _After_ you walk the dog,' he added, killing even the shadow of a smile that was beginning to grow on his secretary's features.

The elf bowed, and left, with the Mabari in literal tow; just as Cassius had felt it was safe to grin to himself, however, Gladius briefly returned, to straighten the carpets the vile animal had dragged along and crumpled, as it was being dragged along itself. Still, because the elf had been useful, Cassius did not see fit punish the unannounced return by words, and considered his glare was enough of an incentive for Gladius to get out of his way, and allow him to enjoy a glimpse of future triumph.

His anger at how he was being treated had not fully receded, but it was now running cold, allowing room for thought.

There was no doubt in Cassius' mind that Pavus and his wife intended to fight the elven upstart; there was no doubt that they fully intended to kill him. And he'd allow them to come close to doing so – if Radonis sincerely helped the effort, then all was for the best, for less work for more gain was never to be shunned. It all then spun into a plan worth following, one that his old, frustrated and like-minded friends would greatly approve of…

Cassius did not wish to unfold it to completion in his mind, just yet, though, for, anger aside amusement was clouding his thoughts.

 _A Liberati Magister,_ he thought to himself, beginning to chuckle while remembering the dead fish eyes of the insipid, gap toothed woman that was Calpernia. _An elven Liberati Magister,_ he reiterated, in his mind, thinking the fever in Gladius' eyes. It was that image that caused his control to falter.

He leaned both his arms on his desk, laughing so hard that tears were wetting his sleeves.

 _The stupid animals actually thing we ever intended to give them that,_ Cassius thought.

The mere fact that Liberati, human or not, even dreamt of that simply showed why they would never be worthy of a senatorial seat – it was, truly, funny as hell.

* * *

Uuh, methinks Cassius has never heard that old adage of if you rattle the pill bottle and you hear silence, it means you're out of mood stabilising meds o.O Still even mad folk get lucky at points, and we think he's stumbled onto something here...Thank you for reading and commenting, and we'll see you on Monday, with an ever thickening plot.

Up next - Zevran attempts a valiant rescue! (no, really!)


	16. Divine Intervention

_But upon the throne of heaven they found_

 _No dragons bearing promised rewards._

 _ **Silence 3:2, 1-2**_

* * *

In silence, Zevran Arainai kneeled, and offered the woman a piece of cloth; she looked away, not accepting it. It was remarkably unwise of her, he thought; her injuries looked days old. Some were caked, some already infected – he might have aided her with a wet piece of cloth, yet there was no water in her cell.

Not even the regular drip of humidity that such places conjured, in Antiva, but then, he considered, Antiva was wet; Tevinter was dry, and Minrathous was far further north than Antiva City was…it was still a port city, there should have been some water dripping somewhere…

'There is no clan Arainai,' the beaten woman said, in a hoarse voice. 'That is a Shem name.'

'Is that important, my lady?' Zevran asked. 'I am here to…'

'Your mock vallaslin is that of Ghilan'nain. How does a knife ear with a Shem name come by a vallaslin?'

Oh, Zevran thought, drawing a deep breath, they'd told him she was a handful, but this was not _quite_ the handful he had imagined. A pleasant handful she might have been, or could be again, he considered, also regretfully contemplating the fact that his employers were extravagant indeed, if they chose to send an assassin on a rescue mission better suited to a Templar.

Or well, not a Templar. Just a man in heavy armour, in more ways than one.

On the other hand, given Abelas, and whatever that strange creature's employer was, he should have expected this. He sought to reason.

'Veldrin Lavellan,' he said to the beaten woman, 'you have been imprisoned for over a week. You are beaten, you are starved, you are bait worth no more than the fish that would swallow you…'

'You are a human with pointed ears,' she hissed, in return, 'an usurper of a marking you do not understand and an insult from Solas to me. Be gone. If he wanted me, he should have come himself.'

Here, though, Zevran had the upper hand.

'My lady, I am told he would have,' he said, hoping revealing all he knew would strike some chord, 'but the true bars of your prison are more magic than locks. Those who imprisoned you made them so. I am here because I have no magic, but I possess skill with locks and dark places. I am merely to guide you…carry you,' he corrected, looking upon the woman and wondering if she could even stand, 'until we are outside the magic bars of your cage.'

She looked up, and Zevran noticed something strange. Perhaps merely thought he'd noticed it – he'd been told this woman's eyes were golden, yet as she glanced up, her eyes glinted red for the briefest of moments.

'Go, before they kill you,' the woman called Veldrin said.

'Maker,' the man mumbled, 'this is starting to look more like a kidnapping than like a rescue by the minute…'

'Do you know what they plan to do?' she asked. 'Those who sent you here?'

'Yes,' he replied, losing his patience. 'They plan to save your life.'

Heavy steps resounded from the end of the corridor, approaching rapidly; Zevran knew he had been quiet, but that the bodies of the two guards who had stood before the door were plainly visible. He cursed under his breath, realising that even the small distance between them and the door spun the width of a continent. He reached out to grab Veldrin's shoulders, nonetheless. If she truly fought back, he would not be able to carry her, but that, in the end, another bruise among many would matter little…

His hands went straight through her figure, and he stared at his fingers in incomprehension. They felt wet.

'Run,' the woman said, but there was nowhere to run to; the door behind him opened, and slammed against the wall.

'Veldrin, thank the Maker…' Zevran heard; he sprung to his feet. The voice was a woman's, so some hope of dashing past her, and out of magic nullifying cell yet remained. Once outside of it…

He turned and froze, as did all hope.

Indeed, the person standing in the doorway was a woman – a tall, heavily armoured woman, whom he vaguely recognised as the Divine, and against whom, he guessed, his swords would count little. Two mages in black robes flanked her on either side, looking… _amused_? Zevran dazedly noted, before realising that the bodies of the two guards should have been sprawled at the mages' feet. They weren't.

The assassin slowly sheathed his swords.

'I do not know what this is, my lady,' Zevran said, in sincere self-irony, 'but by the look on your face, I can only assume that we have both been cruelly had. Some, I think,' he added, looking over his shoulder at the utterly empty cell behind him, then measuring the look of sincere pain on the tall woman's features, 'more cruelly than others. Yes?'

* * *

Even as one who hated politics and all forms of the game, Orlesian or not, Divine Victoria found the few days that immediately followed Solas' attack on Tevinter utterly fascinating – granted, in a terror inducing manner. The only consolation she took from watching it all unfold was that her Imperial counterpart was even more baffled than she was, and did not wield a quarter of her influence.

Or well, Cassandra had realised, the influence she had thought she possessed.

Unlike she had expected it had been Ferelden, not Tevinter, to withdraw from scheduled negotiations on the very next day. Teagan had made the flimsiest of excuses to Radonis, and none to Cassandra herself, when she'd managed to see him.

The situation, he'd said, had changed, and he would not proceed until he received further instructions from Denerim. Explaining that Tevinter's plight would soon translate into a plight for the entire continent had left the Fereldan man utterly untouched – for as far as Denerim was concerned, this was an opportunity. Treaties _would_ be signed, he'd assured an increasingly furious Cassandra, yet not quite the treaties that had originally been intended.

He'd not gone as far as to remind the Divine of her open support of the former Inquisitor, who'd now been shown as the danger Ferelden had always known she would become, but the words had been on the tip of his tongue and in the corner of his lips, as he grinned. He _was_ grinning though, and the Divine suspected it was her still impressive physical form rather than her holy garments to keep Teagan from outright gloating.

The Orlesian court's position, which Archon Radonis, rather than Cassandra had received on the afternoon of the very same day had been far more nuanced, yet no more encouraging.

Empress Celene expressed her deep regret over the attacks in three impressively short paragraphs. Most of the next four pages of the letter detailed her sincerest desire for strengthening a recent friend and ally by bolstering Tevinter's armies with Orlesian ones; the Chevaliers were assembled and would ride as soon as Tevinter agreed that standing against the Qun was the single most important action both nations could undertake, under these concerning circumstances.

The precision of the plan, the exactitude of the numbers, the detail of the positioning of both troops and fleets had made Radonis smile and light-heartedly comment that Orlais' generals were truly great minds, if they could design all this… _support_ within a day and a half; he too had needed say no more, and Cassandra had left his presence with a bitter taste in her mouth as well as the terrible realisation of the very real downfalls of optimism.

Of course those plans had not been created overnight, she'd later said to Leliana.

Of course the plans have nothing to do with the Qun, Leliana had agreed, with the air of one who had expected all chess pieces to move precisely as they had; though the Nightingale had meant to be reassuring, and had not spoken the words in reproach, Cassandra had not been able to listen further, and had merely contented herself on a nod.

All had seen this coming, it seemed – all but the Divine herself, and perhaps Veldrin, who'd assumed Thaedas would at least wait for Solas to be defeated before they once more tore at each other's throats.

 _And to think I called her cynical,_ Cassandra had sadly reckoned, remembering the former Inquisitor's expression as she'd spoken the words, and realising that, in a sense, Veldrin had been as foolishly optimistic as she had…

That first day had been one of reflection; a flurry of madness had risen to engulf her on the very next one.

Maevaris Tilani had stirred fury in the Senate, not in Veldrin's or Dorian's defense, but strictly on her own behalf, and watching the spectacle to which she'd adamantly been invited to had made Cassandra numb with incredulous awe.

She had only met the Magistra on the day of Solas' attack, but she knew of her from Varric, who spoke of her kindly and with an amused, warm glint in his eyes. Eccentricities aside, Tilani had not struck Cassandra as a ruthless turncoat, and nothing in their short acquaintance or the dwarf's outlandish tales could have prepared her for the fact that Maevaris had asked for Veldrin and Dorian's heads with greater ferocity than even their enemies had – this woman, the one who'd shamelessly kissed Dorian on the lips wanted his head on a pike two days later, and nothing was safe or sacred in her desperate attempts at saving herself and her fraction.

Tilani had called for Veldrin to be publically _questioned_ ; she'd called for Dorian to be returned from Quarinus in chains, and from above it all, Radonis, who not often presided over Magisterium sessions in person had impassively watched, saying neither yay nor nay to Maevaris' speech. The only thing he had said was that nothing could save Tilani from her own fate, and that she should perhaps considered what she wished upon her treacherous friends, as she would soon join them…That, in fact, his patience with _her_ was running thin – no sooner had the Archon said the words, that Templars had moved in, and the Senate had cheered and clapped and howled with joy at her arrest, like so many Avvar in a bear baiting ring…

…and Maker, the feeling that this was not, that it _could_ not be subterfuge as Leliana sourly warned, had gripped Cassandra's heart like a vice. If the Magisters would do this to one of their own, Andraste only knew what they were doing to Veldrin – Radonis was unreadable, the rest were hostile, and the only way that Divine Victoria could feel ascertained that she was merely playing her part on a stage meant to deceive another was by seeing Veldrin herself.

She'd petitioned for it, only to be served with a _persona non grata_ order in Leliana's name in Radonis' antechamber. The Divine was still welcome, but the Nightingale was to leave the Imperium, or risk consequences. Despite gentle hints from the Black Divine, who shyly whispered that what the Archon said was what the Imperium would do, and that just standing in his antechamber with no hope of being received diminished both Chantries, precisely when both had been dealt a deadly blow, Cassandra chose to grit her teeth and wait.

In vain, or, at the very least, for little practical gain.

For the entire week that followed, seeing Radonis alone had proven an impossible feat – the ranks of his concilliarum had closed about him, forming an insurmountable wall. He had, after two days of waiting, received her, but only in official capacity. All communication had been flawlessly polite and at a definite armoured arm's length, and if the man wore a mask, seeing beneath it was impossible.

The moment, he had explained, while his six dark shadows loomed over them both, was too charged for suspicions of collusion to run rampant. Thus, all conversations needed to be witnessed or put in writing, or, preferably both; the only sign of goodwill that Radonis did extend was the fact that Leliana's removal, for however harsh the wording of the expulsion order had been, was not truly insisted on.

Nor, the Divine noted, was the impressive guard detail stationed outside the Pavus mansion truly intrusive; they never truly entered past the foyer, and the house felt more protected than actually watched.

This, of course, changed nothing – with each passing day, Leliana grew grimmer and more withdrawn. The activities of her known agents were being closely supervised, yet not curtailed, which only seemed to infuriate the Nightingale further, for she was playing a wasteful cat and mouse game on uneven territory, and without truly knowing whether she was the cat or the mouse. In truth, Leliana considered that the unexpected freedom of action had only been granted so that the Imperium's own agents could see what her own agents were looking into, and was thus a more effective shackle than an outright ban.

The Magisterium's behaviour, the Nightingale had sourly said, was perfect, too perfect, in fact. To an outsider, the two intelligence organisations might have appeared as hostile to each other, which, of course, was absolutely true from Leliana's point of view, as she was thoroughly assured that Dorian was not in Quarinus, and that Veldrin herself was long gone from Minrathous – a thing that Cassandra absolutely refused to believe.

Radonis' stubbornness in not even sharing where Veldrin was being held had thus begun to seriously chip away at even Leliana and Cassandra's wizened and tested friendship; the former feared the elf, the latter feared for her, and it seemed nothing but Veldrin herself could bridge the divide – at the end of ten days of waiting, the Divine had had enough of both suspicion and fear, and decided she'd had quite enough of playing to the Archon's tune.

In full view of the Fereldan delegation and concilliarum, and at the risk of causing the Black Divine to collapse to the floor in shock, Cassandra had announced that she would personally not participate in further discussions until she was allowed to ascertain the condition of the Inquisitor, whom she considered innocent beyond doubt.

The surprise hinging on panic and the sudden shift in attitudes that her words had caused might have been amusing under different circumstances – Radonis had arched an eyebrow, but Teagan's entire edifice of superiority had crumbled in an instant. Ferelden could afford to posture, but could not afford to actually walk away, nor could they continue speaking without the Divine's blessing – Cassandra had played a grand political card without even noticing she had, and twisted Teagan's arm into adding his voice to hers, in Veldrin's defense.

Though he had probably swallowed bile at every word, the Arl had found himself in the terrible position of petitioning for the Divine to meet with Veldrin; Radonis had not crumbled immediately, but he had folded another day later, granting Cassandra a bitter-sweet victory over the Nightingale.

The discrete notice that the Divine would be allowed to meet and speak with the Inquisitor had truly left Leliana baffled, yet relieved; true to herself, the Nightingale had muttered that now, that they were certain Veldrin was truly in Radonis' custody, Cassandra should not have gone through with the meeting. It was enough confirmation that the elf was still in Minrathous, and the Tevinters had already dangerously underestimated Fen'Harel twice. In fact, all the Divine had succeeded in was blackmailing Radonis into leading the Dread Wolf straight to his enemy.

Or lover.

Or both.

Which, Cassandra bitterly thought, as the blonde elf who stood in Veldrin's empty cell sheathed his sword, was precisely what she might have done, if she had not been led astray herself. So deep was the heartbreak that the fact that Veldrin's dance had equally fooled Solas did not enter her mind; instead of seeing to the elf, she spun on the mages who'd led her here, down a false path.

'What is this?' she growled. 'What…'

The mages pulled their staves, and brought them to focus a heartbeat too late, for, from his sword's hilt, the elf's hand swiftly moved along his belt, to a small leather pouch. He yanked it off and threw it to the floor, causing thick, poisonous smoke to engulf them all. She felt nauseated and dizzy, but still managed to grip one of the elf's swords as he darted past her; the next deep breath she took, while angling to strike was her undoing.

Numbness spread though her limbs and her eyelids fell heavy. Whatever she had eaten over the past two days returned to her mouth with a vengeance, and she heaved – the blonde elf darted though the thick smoke, past her and past the mages and out of view; there was a quick flash of light and then he was gone, leaving Divine Victoria with naught but the image of the empty cell and the aftertaste of his mention of cruelty left in her mouth.

* * *

Hello, hello, and thank you for reading and commenting!

Seems like Vel has, in the end, learned a bit from her beloved, in terms of causing chaos and confusion, yes? ;) And it will only get worse up next :)


	17. A Balanced Diet

_The Imperium slept. In the lofty palaces_  
 _Mages dreamed of the Maker's Palace, golden and shining,_  
 _And though they knew not why, the dream turned their blood to ice._  
 _Soldiers stood their watches, and servants huried on errands,_  
 _Unaware of what the dawn would bring._

 ** _Silence 2:1_**

* * *

'Drink this,' Leliana said, softly; ashamed by her own weakness, and more than willing to brave any pain to deny it, Cassandra attempted to sit up, and say she needed no coddling; she fell back to her sheets, and her voice came out as a pitiful squeak, not even forming words.

'Easy, Cassandra,' the Nightingale said, kindly. 'You've acid burns on your skin and inside your chest; the Tevinter healers have worked on your face, and Morrigan has prepared a poultice for your insides. It will take some time before you fully recover. Stay still, my friend, and let us help you. No rush on our behalf will aid, now, and Veldrin…'

 _Is already out our reach, far out of our reach,_ Cassandra thought. _I should have believed you…_

She dutifully drank of the glass Leliana held before her lips, tasting no more than milk and honey…perhaps, mint? she wondered, finding her throat was soothed, and that she could breathe easier.

'Veldrin…' she whispered. Leliana shook her head.

'Gone from Minrathous while the city and Magisterium were still in full flux.' She said. 'She boarded for Qarinus before Tilani herself was expulsed, I am sure. What you briefly saw in that cell was an elaborate projection – this, at least, my Imperial counterparts grudgingly admitted.'

Weakened and hurt in more than body, Cassandra closed her eyes, expecting to be told that she had been the fool. Leliana did nothing of the sort.

'Have another sip,' the red haired woman enticed. 'It is not so bad, no? Who even knew Morrigan could brew something good and _tasty_? _'_

'Excuse me, I am in the chamber,' Morrigan sourly put in. ''Twas not so long ago that I made this for all of you when blundering Arainai casually flung his concoctions at us all in the battle's midst; my predictions on his evolution as poison maker were naught but correct as well – two years short of two decades, and he has evolved not one smidgeon.'

'You…' Cassandra tried, her glance shifting between the two women, 'knew…'

'The elf who attacked you today?' Leliana asked, smiling. 'Please, another sip, Cassandra…Yes, we both did; he travelled with the Hero of Ferelden. How he comes to work for Fen'Harel is a mystery, but, indeed, we knew him. And I disagree with you, Morrigan; if he had intended to kill, he would have – you, and the escort Radonis provided you with were left unconscious, scarred, but alive.'

'Alas, poor Zevran,' Morrigan chuckled. 'No sooner he finds stable employment than he finds himself betrayed by his employer…Can you be sure, Leliana, that you are not outplayed again? Perhaps sweet-tongued Arainai is not working for Solas, but for Radonis…'

'Maker preserve us,' Cassandra whispered, slowly finding her voice.

'I can be sure, yes,' Leliana responded, straightening away from Cassandra's side and turning to face Morrigan. 'The Magisterium's intelligence played this little trick on us all in the hopes of capturing at least one of Fen'Harel's agents; it might even have functioned, for the veil wards around Veldrin's supposed cell were so heavy even I felt them. What they had not counted on was an intruder who has no magic whatsoever. Where a mage, or even one of Fen'Harel's guardians might have gotten ensnared, Zevran walked in and out the old fashioned way. The Magisterium's agents were quite…deflated,' she ended, in a merry, professionally prideful chuckle.

'And I am crushed,' the Divine whispered. 'I had…'

She took a further swallow from Morrigan's brew, and closed her eyes; Leliana gently caressed her shoulder.

'Bad news is better than no news, Cassandra,' Leliana said, softly. 'We now know three things with great certainty, and that is progress.'

The Divine shook her head, and stared at her hands. 'I am unsure how this can be progress,' she said, from the tips of her lips.

Leliana shrugged. 'The news is both good and bad – mostly bad, but certainties at least abound. For one, we know that Veldrin is indeed working with Radonis; for second, her distraction tactic was so good that Fen'Harel feared for her fate.'

'How endearing,' Morrigan said, with a little smile. 'Wonder how much to _his_ liking this little game has been. I do not know the man well, but it did strike me he has quite a temper; I am getting the odd sensation that the reunion of these star crossed almost lovers will not be precisely…romantic.'

The Nightingale sat by Cassandra's side, on the bed. 'It's of no import to me,' she earnestly said. 'What is of import is that we now have a way of tracking Veldrin, and,' she added, biting her lower lip and apologetically glancing at the Divine, though her eyes held a certain, undisguisable triumphant glow, 'we can rest assured that she was, indeed, the source of our _leak_.'

'Leliana,' the Divine sighed, 'please…'

The spymistress shook her head, and placed a parchment in Cassandra's hands – the Divine read, her eyes growing wide in surprise, then cast a glance that spoke of both surprise and sorrow at Morrigan.

For once caught unprepared, the witch allowed her indifferent mask to slip. 'What is it?' she whispered. 'What has transpired?'

Leliana smirked – in true triumph, this time, and reached for the parchment in the Divine's hands. 'I might as well tell you now, Morrigan…I had been waiting for the perfect moment, and I feel this is it.'

She handed the papers to the witch, and watched her growing pale as she read; dated but short of a fortnight before, the parchment bore the gryphon seal of Weisshaupt fortress. In dry terms, the Wardens informed that they had been attacked by a group of odd-looking elves; the make of their armour and weapons was such as none had seen before. Their skin was golden, as were their eyes, and they all bore vallaslin of a pattern that even the Dalish amid the Wardens could not truly place…

'Mythal's sentinels,' Morrigan breathed.

'Indeed,' Leliana replied, smiling. 'Care to guess what, or rather… _who_ they were searching for, in Weisshaupt fortress, Morrigan?'

'And you kept this from me…' the witch said, in a shaky voice, 'for a fortnight? Have you no…'

'Heart?' the Nightingale shot. 'Not when the world is at stake. Besides,' she purred, 'it is not me that you should ask about softer sentiments; it is your…friend…no, that is not the word; co-conspirator, yes? that you should wonder about, witch. She seemed so very sympathetic to your son, she almost fooled _me_.'

'Is Kieran…'

'Of course he is,' Leliana said, gracefully tilting her head to the side. 'Many wardens, however, are not, though I assume that is not of much concern to you; let us just say,' she added, 'that Abelas and his lot found your child as much as we found Veldrin.'

'I fear I do not follow,' Morrigan hissed, crumpling the parchment.

'Kieran was never in Weisshaupt,' Leliana responded, grinning wide. 'I planted that knowledge, and waited to see who would pick its blossoms. It could not have been you; Tevinter would see the boy kidnapped and in their possession, yet the presence of Sentinels rules them out – they could not pactise with them. Can you then, think of anyone who knew where the boy was held, and is so keen on her own designs that she would think nothing of endangering him?' she sweetly ended.

Morrigan breathed in and out, hotly; Cassandra felt as if a volcano was spewing lava under her brow.

'What is her plan, witch? You are party to it, I know it in the marrow of my bones, but she is playing you as she is playing us all.' Leliana asked, gently. 'Do not be blind to the truth; choose wisely between those who would protect Kieran, and those who would so place him in harm's way.'

Morrigan straightened the parchment in her hand and read it though once more, her demeanour growing oddly calmer at each breath. Tired and aggrieved, Cassandra could read nothing upon her face, but prayed to the Maker that Leliana could – the Maker did not answer, for, after a further long moment of consideration, Morrigan tore a thin strip from the parchment. Then, another, and yet another, until the dreaded scroll was no more than a bouquet of meaningless, thin shreds.

'That pretty face and sweet voice of yours must have served you so well on many an occasion, Sister Nightingale,' Morrigan said. 'How many times, I wonder, did you assign the beatings to another, then smoothed your path to answers with your great charms…You're very right, I know what Lavellan plans,' she said, taking a graceful step towards Leliana, and opening her fist to let the strips of parchment flutter to her feet. 'Your advice is kind, and wise too, so I shall follow it to the letter – between those who would protect my son, and those who would endanger him, I shall pick the former. And that, dear Leliana, is not _you_.'

'You misread your position,' Leliana snarled.

'I do not believe so,' the witch courteously replied, 'for, you see, in sharing their plan Pavus and Lavellan have given me a boon I had not dared hope for, and that would be the unwavering knowledge that though you and your Grey Warden cronies may hold my son, you hold nothing over me. Ah,' she chuckled, taking Leliana's scowl in with delight, 'how quickly the charm withers – will you pass to threats now, or should I await one of your hooded agents? It would be a pointless endeavour; the cloud you cast upon my brow is gone.'

'I cannot see from whence your confidence stems…'

'Oh,' Morrigan giggled, 'that one you can blame on the deviant, and not the elf, as he, too fast and honest a speaker, reminded me of something that I had thoroughly forgotten – you cannot afford to harm Kieran. Without him, your design is meaningless, and if you harm a single hair on his head, you'll find that Solas has far more formidable an ally in his corner than poor, perpetually suspected Lavellan ever was or ever will be. Drink your brew, your worship,' she ended, heading for the door, 'before you truly remain voiceless.'

She closed the door behind her in perfect silence and perfect silence reigned for a moment longer.

Leliana sheltered her forehead in her palm. 'Alright,' she said, her voice startlingly neutral. 'That avenue is now officially shut.'

'You frighten me, my friend,' Cassandra whispered, shaking her head.

The Nightingale looked to her Divine, and smiled sadly. 'The left hand does what the right hand cannot be seen doing. I thought you knew that.'

'But you've deceived me too,' the Divine whispered. 'And cruelly so…'

'I apologise deeply, Cassandra,' Leliana said, in a sad, earnest voice that only her old friend had a hope of hearing nowadays. 'I allowed your hope to be contagious for a day, though the information from the Wardens broke my heart. I'd hoped that you would see her and speak to her, and she would tell you what she intends, something that would clarify all this, and somehow prove you right…'

She closed her eyes and sighed; Cassandra took her hand in hers, for she sensed Leliana was fighting back tears. 'Yet, not all is lost,' the Nightingale whispered, drawing back from her sadness. 'We'll not easily find what Veldrin intends, I see that now. We may still learn where she plans to do it, perhaps prevent it…'

'But how, Leliana?' Cassandra asked. 'Radonis is obviously on her side; Dorian did not let slip one iota; we cannot hope to watch Radonis himself, and Dorian is out of our reach as well.'

'Indeed,' the spymistress nodded, finding the strength to smile. 'But Radonis has enemies, and Dorian does too; they will be watching Dorian and Radonis, and we, in turn, will be watching them.'

* * *

Radonis knitted his fingers on the table before him, and measured Cassius with false benevolence.

'I gather you have failed and succeeded at the same time?' the Archon lightly asked; normally, the tone of voice rendered his former apprentice nervous. It was not the case now, and Radonis felt unsettled – even more so because Cassius had not sneezed once since entering his office.

The Magister smiled; this too was unusual and unpleasant. 'I have, your grace,' he responded. 'I would have been greatly pleased if the attack on the false Divine had been rather more…final.'

'So that Ferelden could accuse us of assassinating her? Your logic leaves me confused.'

'So that Ferelden and Orlais either understand the elven menace fully, or they withdraw from these peace treaties that you have signed without Magisterial approval.' Cassius said dryly.

'I was not aware I required Magisterial approval, Cassius,' Radonis said, smiling. 'Have the laws changed since yester eve, when I retired?'

The Magister sat without being invited, and in a visibly relaxed posture. 'No your grace, of course not – such things would not escape your keen eye, fixed on Veldrin Pavus as it might be. Other things may have, however,' he added, extracting an envelope with a broken seal from underneath the many other parchments on the Archon's desk, and pushing it towards him.

Radonis stopped him in mid gesture.

'I congratulate you on the information obtained and on your creativity, Cassius,' the Archon said. 'You have indeed obtained the intelligence I requested. Nowhere in our past conversation was my obligation of acting upon it specified. I thank you for your efforts nonetheless, and with that…'

'Your grace,' Cassius politely spoke, showing no sign of noticing that he had, in not as many words, been invited to depart. 'Context changes the relevance of all things.'

'A wise observation,' the Archon replied. 'I would, therefore, hope that the fact you have obtained undeniable proof that House Pavus fully intends to destroy our enemy would set your heart at ease. Or was there more I should have read in your report? Something I might have missed in the turmoil of the Imperium collapsing around us?'

Cassius chuckled. 'Perhaps,' he nodded. 'The dedication of House Pavus in defeating our enemy is indeed commendable. The context your grace might have missed is the fact that they are so intent on his utter destruction because they fear what actions we might perform with or upon him, if he was alive and in our possession, and not a mere elven corpse to tear asunder and hang on the gates of Minrathous.'

Radonis smiled. 'And what actions might those be? Those you have performed on Altus Hadrian? I fear that level of creativity would be insufficient on a man with a visceral hatred of Tevinter and nothing for you to hold over him.'

'Lady Pavus' well-being seems to interest him,' the Magister replied.

'I doubt she interests him that much.' Radonis said, still smiling.

'We cannot know that unless we ask, your grace…'

'You are a despicable man with many distasteful qualities, Cassius; I've never doubted that about you, and have always appreciated you for it.' the Archon agreeably said. He drew a deep breath before following. 'I am unsure what kind of information you think this elven mage holds that is worthy of your talents.'

'It is set out in my report,' the Magister said, no longer feigning politeness. 'I suggest that in this deceitfully peaceful hiatus, your grace should once more read it. Perhaps attentively, this time.'

Radonis sighed. 'There are,' he said, 'five ways in which I could kill you, this very instant, Magister Cassius. I am assured you are aware of at least three of them, but the other two might give you a final, if unpleasant and very brief surprise.'

Cassius chuckled, and, in longer than he cared to remember, Radonis felt a chill. 'Context not only changes the meaning of information, but also the consequences of actions – you have exiled _your_ part of the Magisterium. Only my part remains, and _we_ invite your grace to concilliarum, this eve, so that we can all put our minds together and decide, in a democratic fashion, how important the information this elven mage holds may be to the Imperium.'

'I have no interest in reviving dragons, Cassius.' Radonis said, dryly.

'Yet, you are but one man, whose frail allies are very, _very_ far away,' the Magister replied. 'You should have killed me when you learned of my dedication to the Venatori and the Elder One – we have proof that you have ordered the assassination of others amid our numbers, your grace. You did not order my death then, doubtlessly because we were still friends - you are a man riddled with sentimentality, so your chance is lost. Killing me now will only feed the unquenched fire of Tevinter pride, that has been doused and doused under your hand.'

Cassius stood, and bowed.

'We shall be seeing you in concilliarum, your grace.'

Radonis looked up, meeting his former apprentice's glance.

'No, you will not.'

The Magister shrugged. 'As your grace wishes,' he said. 'But, if I may remind you of an old adage, the one who is not at the table is on the menu – I suggest you put _that_ in context as well.'

* * *

Greetings and salutations, Abstract and IVI, as always at your service, while the text lasts :) We will be slowing down a little on the posting as our Writer in Chief goes on working holidays. Only a little, though. We thank you for reading and commenting, and we do really love your comments. Don't make IVI work any harder than he has to!

Up Next - A change of pace.


	18. Terra Incognita

_Open the gates._

 _To my Golden City you must sojourn._

 _ **Silence 1:3 - 1-2**_

* * *

'I utterly fail to comprehend why I am the one doing all the rowing,' Dorian complained, not hoping for much mercy.

'Because you are the only man in the boat, darling,' Maevaris responded, with a wide smile. 'Besides, you are working up a sweat, and, dare I say, you look absolutely fabulous.'

Veldrin chuckled, not truly paying attention to the exchange, but merely feeling pleased that Mae was at least pretending to be light-hearted; the Gods knew that it had not been so for most of their crossing…though, the elf admitted, it had not been as bad as it might have been. If ever there had been a moment to be grateful for friends…

The water lapping softly against the bow of their small rowboat, and the gentle cry of seagulls in the early morning mist created a dangerously peaceful impression, yet the seas around them carried ill memories for all – wars left such scars on hearts and minds, and even though a dreadnought had not been sighted in over three years, she could tell that the crew of the ship that had brought them most of the way were watching the horizon in grim tension. The fear had never left them, perhaps it never would, and it was hard not to think of what lay under the now serene waters – the wrecks of ships, the bodies of men, memories and ghosts both old and new drifting in the wind and clinging to their sails…

Ath Velanis had once been the old Imperium's key for controlling the shipping lanes around Seheron. Built just before the Imperium's height and the corruption of the Golden City, the former citadel was a classic example of high Imperial architecture: built near the edge of an outcropping of rock overlooking a crucial bay, its base was a pair of concentric walls resembling stone crowns from which the main keep rose as if the earth itself had spewed it forth, the natural stone suddenly and disconcertingly giving way to ordered brick and ironwork.

It was hard to imagine any semblance of normal life had ever existed on these shores, who'd known no peace since the Steel Age, when the Qun had first wrestled it from the Imperium. It was also all but impossible to see that the massive ruin that now loomed darkly on the horizon might have once born resemblance to Quarinus.

In name alone, the Imperium had once again claimed the isle from the Qunari, yet the lack of any permanent outpost and the utter disinterest in any sort of reconstruction efforts spoke dire truths, which official maps omitted – Seheron was a dead no man's land, that neither the Imperium, nor the Qun truly had an interest in, the stage of a war that the Arishock preferred to keep away from the shores of Par Vollen, and the Imperium sought desperately to keep away from Quarinus.

As any corpse, the island and the remnants of the fortress were crawling with scavengers, Fog Warriors and Tal Vashoth, escaped slaves and pirates; the captain of the vessel that had sold them the small row boat had told them of a few mooring places that he considered safe, yet could not swear that they remained so, and the only concession he had made to the three, who were blatantly – and, judging by the passing glances of the sailors, hilariously – unfit for any sort of physical exertion was that he'd waited for a day of calm waters before hasting them off, and speedily sailing off himself. He'd nonetheless left them some five miles off shore, on the wrong side of the fortress, and with a boat which, judging by its price, should have had golden nails and diamond ores, yet accommodated little more than the clothes on their backs, two coffers of books, and the mirror that was almost an eluvian.

Not that it much mattered; the greatest weight was still in their hearts, and though Mae did her best to jest around the loss of her creature comforts, she was pale and jumpy, while Dorian was visibly suffering from cold, and would probably be so exhausted by the time they reached shore he would be utterly useless until nightfall.

'Thank you,' Veldrin whispered, looking to them both.

'Well yes,' the man huffed. 'Ball and chain they say; rowing was never mentioned in the vows.'

'Shut up and look gorgeous,' Mae beamed. 'You do it so well…'

'I am _not_ that cheap, Mae,' he muttered; the blonde woman shrugged, and wiggled herself into whatever comfortable position she could attain.

'If you prefer negative reinforcement,' she said, 'I could tell you you already smell of wet dog.'

'Yes, well, your hair is flat,' Dorian replied, sounding genuinely offended.

'How dare you!' Maevaris protested, splaying her hand on her chest; Veldrin thought that she could have not loved either of them more. She wanted to say so, yet somehow the words seemed insufficient.

'Do you want to switch, Dorian?' she asked, instead.

'Ah, now that we are within sight of shore, you ask!' he grunted. 'I still have some pride, Vel,' he finally chuckled. 'You're a quarter of my size, Amata; I'll manage, and then take great pleasure in complaining my heart out later.'

Fortunately, the grove of trees that the ship's captain had described did actually look safe, and dense enough to hide them and the boat; once they had finally pulled it ashore and emptied it, Dorian had indeed collapsed with exhaustion. Still, the two women were strong enough together to capsize the small, rickety thing, while Veldrin still remembered how to erase the tracks of it being dragged up the beach, and how to skillfully hide its presence under leaves and branches. Not that it would serve much, she thought, glancing at the fortress' tower. If anyone up there had been watching the waters, they would have seen them coming from miles away.

'At least it isn't pirates,' the elf said, softly; Mae nodded in tense agreement.

'They would be upon us by now, yes,' the Magistra said. 'Everyone else will wait until nightfall.'

'Your optimism gives me heartburn – and by the way, my hands are raw and my feet are freezing,' Dorian sighed. 'The only thing we have going for us is the fact that we probably don't look as if we have anything worth stealing.'

'We actually don't,' Vel shrugged.

'That particular notion also gives me heartburn, so please, don't remind me,' Dorian answered.

Veldrin bit her lower lip, and nodded. 'Can you make a shelter, while I…'

'Excuse me?' the two humans exclaimed, in a single, terrified voice; the elf cringed.

Right, she reminded herself. Tevinter nobles: raw hands, freezing feet, likely to eat toxic berries, lie down in poison ivy, and use chain lightning to kill a hare…if either of them actually knew what a live hare looked like. To top it all off, Maevaris' décolletage seemed more appropriate to an impending orgy.

'We do need to see what is out there,' Veldrin apologetically said, 'and truth be told, eh…Neither of you are wearing the right shoes for the occasion.'

'I don't want you going out alone, doll,' Maevaris said, exchanging a doubtful glance with Dorian. 'Dalish you may be, but you certainly are no rogue…'

'I'm closer to one than either of you,' Veldrin softly responded. 'Come on,' she gently entreated, 'half the Imperium thinks I am some sort of woodland creature, anyway. Give me a chance to prove them right. I'll try to find some shelter first,' she said, looking up through the foliage. 'If we make fire here, it will be seen for miles.'

 _And_ , she thought, _if it starts to rain, Dorian will truly be ill._

She could see it coming, too, and felt nothing but deep and sincere concern. Half of his pretense of frailty was a front, one that he enjoyed hiding behind and sometimes selfishly exploiting, yet she had not lived and fought beside him for so many years to know that some of it was dangerously true. He was a fit man, but sea sickness cared not for physical shape – he'd hardly kept anything down in the two weeks of the crossing, and, along with the food deprivation, he'd also been sleep deprived. All three of them had spent long hours poring over Radonis' diagrams for the orb, but though they'd sometimes retired at the first light of dawn, Maevaris and Veldrin had rested, while Dorian had not.

For the first time in the half decade they had been married in name, they'd shared a room and a bed; the ship they'd been on was too small for all to have their own cabins. He had said nothing, of course, but she had felt him tossing and turning, then finally renouncing any idea of sleep, or simply rushing out of their shared cabin to heave, sometimes so often that there was nothing in his stomach left to expel. He was tired, and he was cold, and no jests about unpeeled grapes could hide it.

The morning announced itself sunny, but the air already smelled of rain to come, and _she_ had brought her friends here, she'd placed them in danger, and stirred bad dreams…

'I'll be back very fast, I swear,' Veldrin decisively said. 'The captain said there is a cave…'

'Fabulously rustic, darling,' Mae smirked. 'We'll take it, if you find it.' She pragmatically concluded. 'Please, don't go up to the fortress alone, doll,' she added, the look in her eyes deathly serious. 'A woodland creature you may be, but last I saw that approach it was scorched rock on all sides. You're a tree monkey, not a rock monkey, eh?'

'I will be careful.' The elf promised, then shed the cape that had sheltered her from cold, yet now would have hindered her movements, and vanished.

The forest was foreign and familiar at the same time – there were no great tree trunks, and no vigorous branches that could be used as paths or vantage points; compared to the trees of the Dales, these were mere, vine riddled shrubs. Travelling amid the branches, as her brother, the hunter, might have advised thus appeared all but impossible. Veldrin was slight and nimble, but the branches seemed too flimsy and too narrow even for her; still, the densely entwined foliage provided for excellent cover, and starved the lower vegetation of sufficient sunlight for significant growth. If she did not trip on the vines, something not even a Dalish toddler might have done, she found the forest floor easy to navigate, and, more importantly, easy to read: no humans had passed this way recently, as otherwise the vines and shrubs would have been slashed or trampled; the weight of a Qunari, be they Fog Warrior1 or Tal Vashoth2, might have left imprints so deep on the moist ground that not even long rains might have erased them…

And Dalish _shoes_ , she thought, smiling to herself, while remembering the confusion they always caused amid the humans, were not only worn to honour Ghilan'nain for religious reasons; if one tread lightly on their toes, and not stomped on their heels as humans did, the footprints of the Elvhen were scarcely distinguishable from the tracks of halla or deer.

All damage to the vegetation around her was, therefore, attributable to wild creatures – a small bear had sharpened his claws on a tree recently here, a young stag honed his horns on another there, in some months past, for the bark was beginning to recover; she was no hunter, but she knew that where there were predators, there was prey, and that they were in no danger of starving. For what was better, the cave the captain had mentioned was not at all far off, and she found it by following the sweet water stream that fell over the cave's mouth like a curtain, forming a small, clear pool before rushing on towards the sea.

She paused to make sure that they would not be disturbing any other creature that might have called the cave a home, but the moss within was not torn by claws, and the cave had only one entrance. It was damp, but perfect in all other ways, and small enough to be warmed by fire.

Veldrin had made faster progress than even she had anticipated, so she stood by the edge of the clear pool, watching the sleek lightning of fast swimming trout and wondering whether she should have ignored Mae's advice, and explored onwards. She could not see the fortress' towers from here, but it could not have been more than two to three miles off; further, she thought, feeling a little sting of concern, the fact that the path she had taken to reach the shelter seemed untraveled did not imply that the road onwards was equally unused. The spot was perfect, too perfect to have gone completely unnoticed by the island's other denizens. The three mages were hardly defenseless against a lone fisherman, but fishermen did not dwell completely alone…

And where there was prey, she reminded herself, there were predators.

Worrying signs did not fail to appear but a mile and a half off – vines neatly severed by blades, paths cleared by many steps, and river rocks fashioned into rudimentary steps on steeper slopes; there was even a sign of a large skirmish no longer than a week past in a clearing – animals had carried off whatever had remained of the losers, with claw marks heading in all directions, but traces of dried blood lingered on the grass and on the few fallen leaves. A short, ill made scimitar, too worthless to be looted lay discarded in a small, thorny shrub.

Of more concern, however, was the fact that the closer to the edge of the patch of forest she got, there were more and more signs of not vagrants, but an actual settlement lying not far off. The bark of some of the trees had been expertly peeled, and their sap was being collected in small, wooden buckets. If there was anything encouraging, it was the fact that none of the buckets were more than a quarter full, and whomever had set this up would likely not be returning to collect the tree sap very soon…yet, she was obviously approaching the territory of a group who had been living here for long enough to know how make use nature.

 _Fog Warriors, not Tal Vashoth. Not that it much mattered._

She'd clearly explored far enough.

Veldrin made her way back swiftly, avoiding the treaded paths and the clearing; she passed by the cave but did not approach it again, instead making straight for the grove where they had moored. She could hear her friends _debating_ from a few hundred yards off, and inwardly cringed, not only at the noise, but at a fact she had allowed herself to forget: perhaps the denizens who lived on the other side of this jungle outcropping had no interest in this particular area because, much like her, they could read that there was no movement. Two humans, two heavy coffers _and_ the mirror would leave a trail that not even a blind man would fail to follow.

'Creators have mercy,' Veldrin whispered to herself; so absorbed were Dorian and Maevaris in a particular sequence of symbols, that she stood behind them, but three feet away, for five long minutes before either took notice of her. 'The continued survival and proliferation of your race leaves me bewildered.' She sighed, out loud.

'That's because we don't live in mosquito riddled jungle wastelands, honey,' Mae smirked.

'You don't live in any sort of forest because you can't,' Veldrin muttered. 'Keep your voices down, I could hear you for a mile off, and we are definitely not alone.'

'I dare say we knew that pretty much when we left Quarinus,' Dorian dryly observed.

'Yes, Amatus, but this time we don't have an army waiting to jump to our rescue.' Vel softly replied, then quickly recounted what results her scouting had yielded. 'I was planning to sort of…eh, take liberties with Mae's advice and have a look at the fortress itself, but I thought it wiser not to run head first into whatever village stands between us and the Ath Velanis landing…'

'What's a small civilian massacre to add to our collection?' Dorian asked, cranking his nose. 'It's practically the only thing we haven't done. Knowingly, at least.' He conceded, a second later.

'I'd try to avoid it, at least until we've had a decent dinner.' Veldrin replied, scowling. 'Seriously, Dorian, enough with the questionable humour…'

'The questionable humour is the only thing preventing me from swimming back to Quarinus, and hiding under Lexi's bed until this is all over,' the man replied, frowning in earnest. 'So,' he sighed, rubbing his forehead, 'cave or no cave? That is the question.'

'Definitely cave,' Maevaris responded, instead of Veldrin. 'We can't be the only ones who know this spot is relatively safe.

'I am torn,' the elf sighed. 'A rag-tag party of pirates might be easier to dispatch than a Fog Warrior hunting party.'

'On the other hand,' Mae said, running her fingers through her blonde locks and pointlessly trying to fluff up her curls, 'once we do dispatch the rag-tag party of pirates, we will receive a friendly visitation from the Fog Warriors as well. It's not like any of us fight with swift arrow and silent blade; if we start casting, half the island will be on our backs in the next blink of an eye.'

'Do you think we could parlay?' Veldrin asked. 'I mean, we intend no harm to the Fog Warriors…'

'And tell them what, sweetness?' the blonde woman smirked. 'Never mind us Tevinter Magisters, just passing through to that ominous looking ruin over there – we give you our personal assurance that we are no longer members in good standing of the Sisterhood of the Cackling Abomination, and only one of us intends to summon a god and do blood magic with unpredictable consequences?'

Vel sighed, and conceded with a shrug. 'Cave it is.'

* * *

Hello all, and welcome to Seheron! A place we all love to small bits...At least the company is good, eh? And it will get better. Just...we don't think you should get a holiday Villa there until they get cell phone coverage. Just Abstract's advice, as she has been running around a courtyard in Spain with her laptop in her arms trying to get a stable line of Wi-Fi, and all but fell in the pool doing so. Sounds funny? Well, give her a lot of love, she has a heavy laptop :)

Thank you all for reading and commenting!

 **Note** : I (Abstract), assume that Fog Warriors are a Qunari racial variant, which pre-dates the Qun as a faith/territorial entity. I take this assumption from the fact that they speak Qunlat (Fenris of DA 2 is taught Qunlat by these guys, as I think if his master did not teach him to read in Tevene, he would have no reason to teach him Qunlat), and I assume they pre-date the Qun as a faith, because otherwise they would have no reason to resists Par Vollen's rule. There is remarkably little lore on them, so we shall be making some up as we go along ^^


	19. Surviving the Night

_The one who repents, who has faith,_

 _Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_

 _She shall know true peace._

 _ **Transfigurations 10:1**_

* * *

It was, in the end, not as bad as it might have been; probably assuming that since his status as the only man in the group would also land him in the position of the one who would be carrying _everything_ , Dorian had come prepared with a levitation spell. They'd still left a terrible amount of tracks, but they were not as deep as they might have been of they'd been actually carrying their belongings on their backs, and, as proof that miracles sometimes did occur, Maevaris had agreed to remove her shoes – probably more because trekking though moist ground would utterly ruin their heels, yet beggars could not be choosers, and her subdued, malevolent mutterings each time she stepped into a puddle were a small price to pay.

The rain that Veldrin had been smelling since morning had set in by the time they reached the cave; it was like no rain the elf had encountered before, for the sun had kept shining above, and the droplets were fine, like a mist, humidity shrouding them from above and below and everywhere, but not causing the rising heat to abate.

The coolness of the cave was thus welcome – once their bedspreads were rolled out, and the mirror propped against one of the cave's walls, Dorian lied down, saying that he needed a moment, then fell asleep so deeply that he did not even feel Vel removing his wet shirt. She pulled the thin cover to his chest, kissed his forehead, then shook her head to Maevaris' frown.

'Leave him,' she whispered to the Magistra. 'It's the first time he sleeps properly since we set out, and we will need to be fresh tonight. We'll all need to be fresh tonight, Mae, perhaps…'

The blonde woman shook her head. 'He could not sleep at sea, I don't think I can sleep on this accursed island.'

'I am so sorry, my friend,' Veldrin whispered.

'A tad late for that, doll,' Maevaris responded, on the same soft tone. 'Rest assured that if we live, I'll make you pay for this…'

She smiled tiredly, knowing her threat was hollow. 'Maker,' she whispered, 'I had forgotten even the air on this rock is a weapon…I need to wash.' She decisively added, heading for one of the coffers, extracting a book that looked utterly non-magical, and giving Veldrin a wink.

'Fancy a swim?' the elf asked, in surprise; the human looked away and smiled sadly. For a moment, Veldrin did not understand why; she had been thinking of a swim herself, for it had indeed been long since she'd bather in a river – the reason for Mae's reaction dawned on her a second later, and her words became lodged in her throat. What _could_ one say…

Fortunately, Maevaris seemed to have been in the situation before, and recovered fast enough for a falsely bright smile. 'I am a bit shy of disrobing in front of strangers, but _just between us girls,_ I don't mind if you do. I'll just wash my feet and my hair and watch you frolic. I've never seen wild elves frolic!'

'It's a sight to blow your mind,' Veldrin softly laughed.

'I am sure it is, sweetness,' the other woman winked. 'Off we go,' she said, stepping out from behind the waterfall.

Veldrin was naked and dived in the pool within a second, arching gracefully as she entered the water and making no splash; it was warmer than she'd expected, which was a tad disappointing, but it felt good, so she lingered under the surface, weaving amid the rocks and scaring the trout for as long as she could hold her breath. She came up a good minute later, and brushed her long hair from her face, before realising the gesture was pointless, and once more arching back, to let the weight of the water pull the hair off her forehead.

'You know I can still see _you_ in there,' Mae said, with a little crooked grin; far more careful than the elf had been, she'd lifted the skirts of her robes to her knees, and placed her feet in the water, her book by her side.

'I'm pretty sure you've seen naked women before,' Veldrin chuckled, swimming to shore, and placing her entwined elbows next to Mae's knees.

'Not in the mirror, doll,' the Magistra said, looking Veldrin in the eyes, but in fact, looking through her.

'Eh,' Vel said, fighting off caution, for she feared it would hurt her friend more than false politeness, 'you know that the only thing that a beautiful woman is good for when she jumps in the water is…'

'…to scare the fish,' Maevaris nodded, her glance more present. 'That is what my father used to say, it's an old Tevinter proverb.'

'It's Elvhen, in fact,' Vel corrected, poking the tip of her tongue out. 'It's one of the teachings of Andruil – but it has a practical connotation as well, I think. It's just a roundabout way of telling one one should not try to catch trout with one's teeth.'

The elf lifted herself out of the water, and though her friend was frowning, spent a short moment collecting some waterside leaves; she crushed them between a couple of rocks, at first roughly, but then in finer and finer pieces, then, for the last motion she carefully let a few droplets of water from her hair drip onto the crushed plants, making them foam lightly. She carefully collected the result from the sharper rock, placed it on the flatter one, and silently descended back in the water.

'Give me your foot,' she said. 'Come on,' she insisted, when Maevaris' frown only deepened. Looking terribly doubtful, the human took her right foot out of the water and placed it in Veldrin's hand, then sighed in pleasure and surrender as the elf worked the leaves she'd prepared into a fine lather, over Mae's heel and in between her toes.

'This, by the way, is not an indication that elves have a natural compulsion to serve the master race,' the elf said. 'Just that us tree monkeys show tribal affiliation by grooming each other, though in this particular case, I am not feeling particularly inclined to eat what I wrestled from your coat…'

'I waxed my toes before we left, what are you speaking of!' Maevaris mockingly protested. 'This feels…good,' she said, closing her eyes. 'Thank you, Vel.'

'It will sting a little when you put your foot back in the water, you scratched yourself quite a bit…'

'I don't know that herb,' the human said. 'What is it?'

'It's not one, it's three – the foaming and the stinging plants you really don't know, and I don't know the human word for them, and there's a pinch of felandaris…'

'Felandaris?' Mae asked, suddenly opening her eyes. 'Is that not poisonous?'

'No, Shem'len,' Veldrin sternly said. 'Or well, it is, in the right quantity. In this case, though…give me your other foot,' she said. The human obeyed in fascination. 'In this case, it will just make your feet numb and help you travel faster.'

'Barefoot,' Mae shuddered.

'The importance of sensible shoes…' Veldrin shrugged.

'Might have been mentioned before we left, yes?' the Magistra scowled.

'Right…because after I've twisted your arm into abandoning what you have been working for in Senate for a decade, and made you come here, to relive your worst nightmare, I am going to criticise your wardrobe. My shamelessness does have limits.'

'Hard to see,' Mae sighed, pointedly looking down at Vel's breasts; the elf merely shook her head.

'If you are not frolicking naked, you're frolicking wrong,' she chuckled. 'Ma serannas, Mae.'

'Thank me when it's done, doll,' Maevaris said. 'This does sting,' she hissed, putting her foot in the water. 'Vel,' she said, placing her hand on top of the book, 'the last time I was here…'

'Bad things happened, Amata,' Veldrin said, softly. 'Some that Varric should perhaps not have written about.'

Mae nodded. 'Yes.' She said. 'But bad things happened because I overestimated myself. I thought I could take on Titus, and I could not; the front gate of Ath Velanis was being bombarded by two Qunari dreadnoughts and it would not have opened without Titus' own stupidity. If Titus had not opened that gate, none could have entered, Arishock, pirate queens, Fereldan Kings and dreadnaughts and tooth fairies and unicorns assembled. Varric still got in unnoticed.'

'But Varric's not here, Mae,' Veldrin attentively spoke.

'No, he is not,' Maevaris answered. 'But the point though which he did enter is still described in his book.'

'Go on,' Veldrin said, swimming a foot back, and attentively beholding her friend.

'We neither need nor want Ath Velanis,' Mae seriously said. 'What we need are Titus' channeling diagrams, which are in his laboratory, provided no one has set them ablaze;

It was, in the end, not as bad as it might have been; probably assuming that since his status as the only man in the group would also land him in the position of the one who would be carrying _everything_ , Dorian had come prepared with a levitation spell. They'd still left a terrible amount of tracks, but they were not as deep as they might have been of they'd been actually carrying their belongings on their backs, and, as proof that miracles sometimes did occur, Maevaris had agreed to remove her shoes – probably more because trekking though moist ground would utterly ruin their heels, yet beggars could not be choosers, and her subdued, malevolent mutterings each time she stepped into a puddle or onto a sharp pebble were a small price to pay.

The rain that Veldrin had been smelling since morning had set in by the time they reached the cave; it was like no rain the elf had encountered before, for the sun had kept shining above, and the droplets were fine, like a mist, humidity shrouding them from above and below and everywhere, but not causing the rising heat to abate.

The coolness of the cave was thus welcome – once their bedspreads were rolled out, and the mirror propped against one of the cave's walls, Dorian lied down, saying that he needed a moment, then fell asleep so deeply that he did not even feel Vel removing his wet shirt. She pulled the thin cover to his chest, kissed his forehead, then shook her head to Maevaris' frown.

'Leave him,' she whispered to the Magistra. 'It's the first time he sleeps properly since we set out, and we will need to be fresh tonight. We'll all need to be fresh tonight, Mae, perhaps…'

The blonde woman shook her head. 'He could not sleep at sea, I don't think I can sleep on this accursed island.'

'I am so sorry, my friend,' Veldrin whispered.

'A tad late for that, doll,' Maevaris responded, on the same soft tone. 'Rest assured that if we live, I'll make you pay for this…'

She smiled tiredly, knowing her threat was hollow. 'Maker,' she whispered, 'I had forgotten even the air on this rock is a weapon…I need to wash.' She decisively added, heading for one of the coffers, extracting a book that looked utterly non-magical, and giving Veldrin a wink.

'Fancy a quick swim?' the elf asked, in surprise; the human looked away and smiled sadly. For a moment, Veldrin did not understand why; she had been thinking of a swim herself, for it had indeed been long since she'd bather in a river – the reason for Mae's reaction dawned on her a second later, and her words became lodged in her throat. What _could_ one say…

Fortunately, Maevaris seemed to have been in the situation before, and recovered fast enough for a falsely bright smile. 'I am a bit shy of disrobing in front of strangers, but _just between us girls,_ I don't mind if you do. I'll just wash my feet and my hair and watch you frolic. I've never seen wild elves frolic!'

'It's a sight to blow your mind,' Veldrin softly laughed.

'I am sure it is, sweetness,' the other woman winked. 'Off you go,' she said, stepping out from behind the waterfall.

Veldrin was naked and dived in the pool within a second, arching gracefully as she entered the water and making no splash; it was warmer than she'd expected, which was a tad disappointing, but it felt good, so she lingered under the surface, weaving amid the rocks and scaring the trout for as long as she could hold her breath. She came up a good minute later, and brushed her long hair from her face, before realising the gesture was pointless, and once more arching back, to let the weight of the water pull the hair off her forehead.

'You know I can still see _you_ in there,' Mae said, with a little crooked grin; far more careful than the elf had been, she'd lifted the skirts of her robes to her knees, and placed her feet in the water, her book by her side.

'I'm pretty sure you've seen naked women before,' Veldrin chuckled, swimming to shore, and placing her entwined elbows next to Mae's knees.

'Not in the mirror, doll,' the Magistra said, looking Veldrin in the eyes, but in fact, looking through her.

'Eh,' Vel said, fighting off caution, for she feared it would hurt her friend more than blunt acknowledgement of the obvious, 'you know that the only thing that even a beautiful woman is good for when she jumps in the water is…'

'…to scare the fish,' Maevaris nodded, her glance more present. 'That is what my father used to say, it's an old Tevinter proverb.'

'It's Elvhen, in fact,' Vel corrected, poking the tip of her tongue out. 'It's one of the teachings of Andruil – but it has a practical connotation as well, I think. It's just a roundabout way of telling one one should not try to catch trout with one's teeth.'

The elf lifted herself out of the water, and though her friend was frowning, spent a short moment collecting some waterside leaves; she crushed them between a couple of rocks, at first roughly, but then in finer and finer pieces, then, for the last motion she carefully let a few droplets of water from her hair drip onto the crushed plants, making them foam lightly. She carefully collected the result from the sharper rock, placed it on the flatter one, and silently descended back in the water.

'Give me your foot,' she said. 'Come on,' she insisted, when Maevaris' frown only deepened. Looking terribly doubtful, the human took her right foot out of the water and placed it in Veldrin's hand, then sighed in pleasure and surrender as the elf worked the leaves she'd prepared into a fine lather, over Mae's heel and in between her toes.

'This, by the way, is not an indication that elves have a natural compulsion to serve the master race,' the elf said. 'Just that us tree monkeys show tribal affiliation by grooming each other, though in this particular case, I am not feeling particularly inclined to eat what I wrestled from your coat…'

'I waxed my toes before we left, what coat are you speaking of!' Maevaris mockingly protested. 'This feels…good,' she said, closing her eyes. 'Thank you, Vel.'

'It will sting a little when you put your foot back in the water, you scratched yourself quite a bit…'

'I don't know that herb,' the human said. 'What is it?'

'It's not one, it's three – the foaming and the stinging plants you really don't know, and I don't know the human word for them, and there's a pinch of felandaris…'

'Felandaris?' Mae asked, suddenly opening her eyes. 'Is that not poisonous?'

'No, Shem'len,' Veldrin sternly said. 'Or well, it is, in the right quantity. In this case, though…give me your other foot,' she said. The human obeyed in fascination. 'In this case, it will just make your feet numb and help you travel faster.'

'Barefoot,' Mae shuddered.

'The importance of sensible shoes…' Veldrin shrugged.

'Might have been mentioned before we left, yes?' the Magistra scowled.

'Right…because after I've twisted your arm into abandoning what you have been working for in Senate for a decade, and made you come here, to relive your worst nightmare, I am going not to criticise your wardrobe. My shamelessness does have limits.'

'Hard to see,' Mae sighed, pointedly looking down at Vel's breasts; the elf merely shook her head.

'If you are not frolicking naked, you're frolicking wrong,' she chuckled. 'Ma serannas, Mae.'

'Thank me when it's done, doll,' Maevaris said. 'This does sting,' she hissed, putting her foot in the water. 'Vel, there was something I wanted to tell you.' she said, placing her hand on top of the book, 'The last time I was here…'

'Bad things happened, Mae,' Veldrin said, softly. 'Some that Varric should perhaps not have written about.'

Mae nodded. 'Yes.' She said. 'But bad things happened because I overestimated myself. I thought I could take on Titus, and I could not, so my troubles were of my own making. Still, the front gate of Ath Velanis was being bombarded by two Qunari dreadnoughts and it would not have opened without Titus' own stupidity. If Titus had not opened that gate, none could have entered that way - Arishock, pirate queens, Fereldan Kings and dreadnaughts and tooth fairies and unicorns assembled. Varric still got in unnoticed.'

'But Varric's not here, Mae,' Veldrin attentively spoke.

'No, he is not,' Maevaris answered. 'The point though which he did enter is still described in his book.'

'Go on,' Veldrin said, swimming a foot back, and attentively beholding her friend.

'We neither need nor want the entirety of Ath Velanis,' Mae seriously said. 'What we need are Titus' channeling diagrams, which are in his laboratory, provided no one has set them ablaze; I should not be surprised that you know your way through forests, yet I am…I did not think I could make out how Varric did make it in from his fanciful descriptions, but I have the distinctive feeling you might. Thus…'

She gently pushed the book forward.

'You're not going to make me actually _read_ Varric's…' Veldrin protested, her eyes wide in fright.

'It's better than Swords and Shields,' Mae shrugged, 'and the characters – a certain blonde, talented, brave beyond measure and dazzling Magistra, in particular – are enthralling...'

'That's what people said about Hard in Hightown, and it was god-awful,' the elf sighed.

' _I_ was not featured in Hard in Hightown, oh great literary conaisseur…I suggest you start with Part Three, skip the heroic beach assault, and focus on Varric's own antics,' the other woman said, narrowing her eyes. 'He describes an intact dragon statue, on a deeply cracked rocky peak that lies on the other side of Ath Velanis proper – I do not know what he implies by _other side,_ but my assumption is that it is diametrically opposed to the front gates…Maybe, if we are fortunate, away from this village you fear to rouse.'

The Magistra thoughtfully bit her full lower lip. 'It would make sense to me,' she softly followed. 'The fortress faces east, to Par Vollen – what Varric describes, though he would not recognise it as such, seems like a west-facing altar to Lusacan, the Watchman of Night, or, if he correctly appreciated the distance to the city, it could be one to Zazikel, the Madman of Chaos. Both are possible – one due to how it is set, and the other because of where it is set. Not even the Ancients dared have altars to Zazikel inside the fortress walls.'

'I can,' Maevaris said, 'draw you what magical circles you should be looking for, for either of these, just in case you find others; you would be seeing the dragon statue at their center, but it would be the specific pattern that would aid you recognise them. What I can't do is give you more bearings to where this cracked altar might be; the fortress would dwarf it, or it might be overgrown. Varric still describes parts of the journey that led him there, and what he saw on the way; it's hardly a map to my eyes, doll, but…'

'…perhaps it could be one to me,' Veldrin nodded.

'Unless Varric took one of his usual heroic licenses and just found the kitchen back door,' Maevaris sighed. She wiggled her toes in the water. 'I know it is a long shot,' the Magistra said, 'but I don't like our chances with the front gate, or even reaching it. Fabulous as a full frontal assault might be…'

'We shall still need a secure place to face Solas, Mae,' the elf said, dipping her head in the water to once more make her hair pleasantly cool.

'I agree,' the other woman shrugged, 'but we are still some ways off that; your mirror is not finished, we don't know the precise steps of your ritual, and Dorian…eh, Dorian,' she sighed, 'seems to think that the flawless postal service of Quarinus will deliver whatever Radonis wanted you two collect to Seheron, in neatly wrapped parcels, tied with pink bows.'

'Yes, that _is_ strange,' Veldrin admitted. 'He hasn't said a word on how he's going about that – he just gave me a smug 'I have a cunning plan!' and then went off whistling. Off tune, I might add.'

Mae chuckled and dismissed the observation. 'He only whistles on tune when he's drunk, sweetness, or haven't you noticed? In any event,' she sighed, her smile swiftly vanishing, 'let's take small steps.'

'Surviving the night will be an excellent first one.' Veldrin said.

'Nah,' Mae purred. 'That's merely the fourth one; the first is you get out of the water, as all your frolicking is making me jealous and you wrinkly; the second is that you let _me_ bathe – no peeking! – while you immerse yourself in Varric's prose, and the third is that once I am done washing, I am sure you can delight us with trout a la Dalish…'

'I beg your pardon!' Veldrin protested.

'Can also be deer a la Dalish, honey, I am always curious about native cuisines,' Mae answered, with her most resplendent smile. 'Then, we can see about surviving the night.'

* * *

Hello everyone, IVI here for a change. I hope everyone is enjoying so far as this is where we really start our first true dungeon crawl segment, which I'm always a fan of. What can I say - I'm a guy, and there's naked frolicking, ruined temples, and soon to be epic battles. Stick around as you won't be disappointed. Also, thank you again for taking the time to read our little work here. We love this world and we're glad we can revisit it with you :)


	20. For the Reunion

_Maker, my enemies are abundant._

 _Many are those who rise up against me._

 _But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_

 _Should they set themselves against me._

 ** _Trials 1, 1-4_**

* * *

It was quiet…too quiet, as Varric might have put it and, sadly, often did when he did not know how else to start a chapter. That, or perhaps – it was a still and dark night, the leaves of the trees glistening under the full moon; still, clichés existed for a reason: it was too quiet, and, aside the fact that the moon was crescent, the leaves of the trees still glistened and swayed softly in the sea breeze…

 _Creators,_ Veldrin thought, _I am losing my mind._

She sat, cross legged and staff on hand, in the shade of a small shrub, on top of their temporary abode – she felt horribly exposed, but had thought the vantage point was better than the alternative of standing watch inside the cave itself. If there'd been any hope that their progress through Ath Velanis might at least be unhindered, it had been dashed, for as soon as the light of day dimmed, the fortress had come alight, fires burning on its pointy fortifications and gleaming out of its narrow windows.

Whatever force was occupying the fortress now was neither small, nor keen on disguising its presence. They had no reason to; the Qunari had stopped patrolling the straights, while the Fog Warriors had no interest in it, else they might have made it their own centuries before. By her reckoning, then, it was either a large pirate operation with no mentionable enemies, or Tal Vashoth with no further reason to hide. In either case, the chances that three lone mages could slip inside unnoticed were frightfully slim…And still, they'd had no choice – by now, Cassandra and Leliana and even Solas must have known she was no longer in the Imperium; a larger company would simply have announced that fact sooner.

 _I should have come alone,_ Veldrin bitterly thought; though she knew that it truly might have been impossible, the notion did not stop circling her mind, like an angry hive of wasps. _I should have brought an army,_ another thought tugged.

The veil over Seheron was scarred, but not even Solas would be able to gain a foothold here – if anything, far more than in the Imperium itself, he'd only find enemies…unless, of course, they did not know who they were serving and what his ultimate intentions were, which was entirely possible; smugglers did not much care for what they smuggled, and would probably shrug off dropping packages in the middle of the jungle as eccentricity…

He almost escaped her eye; but for a stray moon beam reflecting in his own deep, red eyes he might have escaped anyone's.

Fifteen feet from her, equally shaded by a shrub and so pale that he might have seemed no more than a moon reflection among the leaves stood a young child; he was too light of skin to be a Par Vollen Qunari, but his horns had begun to grow nonetheless, no more than two barely visible, thickened lines of bone curling above his ears. Their glances locked – there was no curiosity in his, just tense attention ill-fitting his young age, and too late, Veldrin understood her mistake.

There had no tracks because _their_ scouts were too light to leave them.

She slowly stood, keeping her arms open, then softly bowed her head.

' _Maraas shokra, imekari1_ ,' she softly said, knowing her Qunlat was awful, and that perhaps the child did not speak the language anyway. Knowing himself discovered, but not truly seeming phased or in the least frightened, the child stood in his turn; he grinned.

' _Maraas kata, sarebaas2,_ ' the child said, pointing at her staff with wicked satisfaction. ' _Tevinter-vashoth sarebaas,'_ he hissed, his ruby eyes glowing with hate – the fog came then, from everywhere and nowhere, but he did not vanish within it quickly enough; his back was still an easy target by the time Veldrin brought her staff up.

At the last second, she turned its lightning to the ground; she was, she dazedly thought, so many things, so many evil things, but not yet… _this._

 _Creators, not yet this._

She called Dorian's name on top of her lungs, as silence did not matter at this point – Mae was beside her first, giving her heart a beat's pause before she recalled Maevaris did not focus with a staff; Dorian's barrier rose about all three in the next breath, yet it did no more than heighten the impression that they were standing in an upside bowl, miraculously submerged in milk. They saw nothing outside it.

'How many?' Dorian asked.

'I only saw the one,' Vel whispered.

'Let there be light, then,' Maevaris said, between gritted teeth, and wisps of cutting wind rose about her, making her robes flutter, and causing both Vel and Dorian to shield their faces with their forearms – quickly grown to a hurricane, Mae's summoned air stream expanded beyond the barrier, pushing back the white mists back for tens of feet. At the same time, Veldrin sent a ball of fire towards the sky, making it light up as day, and also clarifying this was very likely to be their last night among the living.

There were at least sixty, assuredly more where the fog still hid them, and the three mages were surrounded from all sides. Surprised by the fact that their cover had been blown, the fog warriors stopped for a moment, assessing the three mages in turn. Those in the first few lines exchanged confused glances – their alchemical disguise was intended to hide their numbers, of course, but also make the dreaded Magisters become separated from their guards. The fact that there were neither guards nor slaves in sight left them disconcerted, but did not slow them for longer than a second.

Slow steps and stealth brought the first enemy through the barrier; Dorian still heard the hiss of the blade and sidestepped just enough for it to find his shoulder, not his chest – the attacker pulled his blade out, seeking another angle, but the mage was decisively faster. He lodged his left hand to the fog warrior's face, not to push him aside, but to draw him closer.

'Not my first…dance,' the man hissed, watching the other's eyes grow red with heat, then literally pop and leak upon his hand – he let the body fall, and shook his own hand, hissing in pain.

The next fireball from Vel's staff seemed once more imprecise, for it did not hit the approaching rows of pale-skinned Qunari, but the tightly weaved canape of branches above them, to shower all with burning leaves and pieces of wood – ranks broke, but, with their short blades drawn, the fog warriors began to circle, looking for an opening. From behind them, renewed tides of mist blew in, again hiding them from sight.

The next one to breach the mages' shield went at Maevaris, deeply grazing her collarbone before thick, entwined vines, called forth by the blindingly blue circles that enveloped the woman's arms caught him in their inescapable grasp.

'Roast him, Vel,' Mae coolly commanded; the warrior was shaking from all joints and letting loose the contents of his bowels before she's even finished speaking the words. Ominous, glowing purple skulls rose above the white fog, and screams of terror erupted into the night – the elf's lightning strike left the dead body of Mae's captive and equally darted forth, for magic did not need eyes to find targets.

One of the enemies, his body engulfed in blue light, stepped into the shield and positioned himself by the mages' sides – with one swift motion of his arm, he severed the throat of one of his kinsmen, and the arm of another, before a third thrust both of his blades in his back caused him to fall lifeless to the ground. The lack of one hand did not stop the crippled Qunari to strike true at Dorian's side; the mage staggered and their defenses dwindled, along with his loss of concentration and blood. A focused shot of Vel's staff took the crippled one's head right off his shoulders, yet the barrier was lost – five more of the for warriors advanced, bloodied blades aimed at the elf – they staggered back, as her mind's energies erupted, and briefly became trapped by ice rising under their feet. One of the icicles, a more powerful one, went straight through one attacker's skull.

Still, always there was one that went unseen, especially now that the mist was invading their small circle. Vel saw the tip of the blade coming out through her chest before she felt the blow; they'd missed her heart, she knew, for she could feel it copiously pumping blood inside her chest, blood that would soon stifle her breathing. Mae screamed her name; Dorian merely whispered it.

The elf slipped to her knees.

' _Maraas kata_ ,' Veldrin whispered; one of the pale Qunari had just been about to draw his blade against Mae's throat. The words stopped him, and he sought guidance in the ever growing mists. 'We surrender.' She whispered, in Tevene; she did not know whether Qunlat had a phrase for it. She let her staff fall from her bloodied fingers, and yet, with those same fingers she pulled her tiny herb knife, keeping it hidden in her fist.

Blood, her own, or Dorian's rendered the earth under knees moist, and she felt herself sinking.

'No, Amata,' the man said, but he too could no longer stand, so he kneeled beside her; he was still leaning on his staff, and it still glowed in focus. 'They'll…'

His too weak voice was drowned by barked Qunari consonants, as was her voice when she said _In mea fide vinces3._ As was the scratch of her little herb knife on the moist ground, as she drew, and drew, and drew, while the consonants rose in many voices, and the fog began to dissipate.

Maevaris' captor still held his blade to her throat. Among the lines of the Fog Warriors, one that was taller than most others and had three lines of horns advanced, beholding the scene. He gestured for his man to release the blonde woman, and toss her to the ground with the other three – just like Dorian, Mae held on to her focus gem, the one she wore as a pendant. Just like him, she did not lower her glance to the bloody ground, where, with her little blunt knife, Vel drew and drew and drew, lines intersecting lines, and insane circles, and tiny symbols.

'Drop weapons, Tevinter-vashoth,' the tall one, with the six sets of horns spoke. 'Your slave speaks wisdom. Drop weapons. Swifter paths to hell you'll so find.'

Mae spat; the warrior closest to her struck her across the face so hard that she fell to the blood-muddied ground, next to Vel's little hand, that moved and moved, and…Maevaris Tilani read what she wrote.

The blonde Magistra steadied herself on one arm, spitting once more, yet this time, spitting blood. With one defiant gesture, she ripped her amulet from her scratched throat and threw it at the tall warrior's feet.

'Fine,' she heaved.

'Et tu, Mae,' Dorian whimpered.

'It's over, Dorian,' Mae said. 'Drop your staff.'

'Drop everything,' Vel whispered, painstakingly turning her head to meet his glance; the man shook his head – she sustained his gaze, and guided it somewhere beyond the tall, six-horned man who held the axe that would soon sever their heads.

Behind the tightening row of fog warriors, there were unnatural glints in the trees and bushes. Far behind, there was the glint of another axe.

'Drop _everything_ , Amatus,' Vel repeated, and this time, he did – not only the staff, but also the orb on his belt. It rolled towards the elf, caking itself in blood, and mud and grass. She did not need to reach for it; it found her palm all on its own, flaring crimson once it touched her skin. Veldrin stabbed her little herb knife into her chest, causing the blood that was stifling her breathing to gush freely out, filling the contours of lines and circles and tiny symbols.

Blood rose from the ground, turning to fire and light. The skull of the six-horned fog-warrior's skull was split in half, a jagged axe cracking it as if it were a mere egg; hidden arrows found eye sockets and foreheads and throats, while the blood that had muddied the ground returned to the bodies to witch it belonged, healing all wounds – Dorian breathed and stood, and Veldrin did so as well.

Even the blood that had rendered her robes heavy was draining back inside her own body; the somnaborium drifted above her fingers, the focus of it all, and when the blood on the clothes and in the mud was not enough, the elf turned her attention to the body of the six-horned fog warrior, ripping thin, fresh wisps of red from the still warm corpse, to channel it into herself, and Dorian, and even Mae's only, light graze.

Krem's sword came out through the chest of one of the bewildered fog warriors; he had enough strength to pull himself off the sword turn and graze the Charger lieutenant's cheek before falling. No longer gold, but flashing red, Veldrin's eyes turned to the scene – she flung her hand wide open, sending the orb into a wide arch, and making it yank two uninjured fog warriors from the dimming ranks; blood oozed though their noses, and though the corners of their eyes and Dorian screamed _No,_ but she did not hear him.

It was only then that Iron Bull caught her, his hands inescapable shackles on her wrists, his arms like iron circles about her shoulders. He pulled her back down to the ground, though she'd never even realised she was floating above it, and wrestled his entire massive weight above her just to keep her down.

'No, boss, this is not you, boss, stop…We won, stop. Stop.'

'Krem's hurt,' Veldrin whispered.

'He'll recover,' the giant Qunari said, crushing all of her, but somehow making her feel safe. 'It's you I am not sure about.'

* * *

1 We have no fight/conflict, child.

2 Fight will be over when you're dead, mage.

3 Your faith in me will bring you victory.

* * *

./Tips hat, we promised you melted eyes, you have 'em! Short chapter, so - you guessed it - there is a second part on Wednesday :)

Thank you for reading and commenting,

Cheers, Abstract and IVI :)


	21. Questionable Humour

_And the Prophet stood beside Shartan_

 _And shouted to her host:_

 _"Behold! Our champion!"_

 _And gave to him the blade of her own mother_

 _From her own scabbard, Glandivalis, saying:_

 _"Take this, my champion,_

 _And free our people forever."_

 ** _Shartan 10, 1-7_**

* * *

You'll see why ;)

* * *

'I'm like, totally freaked the fuck out, 'k?' Sera muttered. 'Fucking freaked out!'

Veldrin sighed, and chose to ignore her, instead setting her reproachful glance on Dorian.

'So this was your grand plan,' she dryly said. 'Red Jenny. _Red Jenny?_ '

'I'm sorry, did you have a better one, or knew of another group who'd break into Chantries, Grey Warden fortresses and rob Nevarran merchants blind with no qualms?' Dorian frowned. 'And Sera did deliver. She always does.'

'Don't forget me and the boys, boss,' the Bull said.

'Can't forget _you_ , Bull, you broke three of my ribs,' Veldrin sighed.

'That's 'cause you were going bat-shit crazy with that glowy ball of death, ok?' the Qunari said, shrugging his massive shoulders. 'I mean, Dorian said we might find you a little…off, but I was assuming you were all doe-eyed and tearful, not…'

'Bat-shit crazy,' Sera agreed. 'What the _fuck_ was that? 'Cuz that sure didn't look like any healin' spell I ever seen!'

'That may perhaps be because you haven't seen too much, Sera,' Dorian tiredly said.

'Yeh, an' the less of _that_ crap I'm gonna see, the happier I'm gonna be…'

'Excuse me for butting in,' Dalish said, putting her _bow_ back in its sheath on her back. 'Don't we have better things to do then guilt-tripping her wor…'

'Veldrin,' Veldrin said, pleadingly. 'Not _your worship,_ or _Herald._ Please.'

The blonde elf gave her a suspiciously narrowed glance, but then shrugged. 'Right…Veldrin. That was quite impressive, yet…'

'Impressive?' Sera screamed, stomping her foot. 'It looked like what blasted Corypenis might 'ave done, and she looked like she was gonna puke out a rage demon! Through her eyes!'

'Yes, well, we can all have a go at her for that later,' Dalish said, cranking her nose. 'All together, or in turns, or as you like it – for the moment, however, I suggest the more pressing issue is what we do with…these.'

And, Veldrin thought, looking about herself with in the cruel light of day, _these_ were many. Most of them – some thirty – dead, but some fifteen still alive and injured. Krem and Skinner had tied the survivors up securely, and, to much of Veldrin's surprise, Maevaris had gone about healing whatever injuries she could.

The warriors did not speak to her, and looked away from her glance, but not spat or growled insults, either; they looked ashamed and bewildered, by the same measure, and though they probably had no grasp of the common tongue, had understood that the blonde Tevinter- _vashoth_ had not only insisted on easing their suffering, but also prevented Skinner from severing their ankle tendons, which the city elf regarded as perfectly reasonable precaution.

The dead had been gathered on the other side of the small clearing, not in a pile, but laying side by side. It was likely that not all mangled bodies had gotten their just severed parts, yet Krem had done as well as he could have…and Creators, Veldrin dazedly thought, any chance of bypassing the natives was now dead, too.

'Oh, Gods,' she whispered, shaking her head. 'How do we get out of this fuck-up, Bull?'

'Apology's a bit out of the question, no?' Dorian smirked.

'Apologies for what, Dorian?' the Qunari warrior asked, in an ill-fitting, kind tone. ' _They_ came at _you_.'

'Seemed a bit confused about the lack of 'My slaves, my slaves, where are my slaves?' shouting, as well,' the Tevinter replied, arching an eyebrow.

'See?' Bull replied, smiling. 'When you brow me like that, you give me...'

'Well, about that, Bull,' Veldrin said, noticing that for once her husband was blushing to the tips of his ears, 'maybe Dorian has failed to mention this, but…He's with someone.'

'Oh no, boss,' the warrior sincerely rushed to reassure, 'I haven't missed your rings and all, I was there when you exchanged them, remember? A bit out of it, but hey, I was there. Just, you know, I didn't think you mind me having a go, for old times' sake? Or hell, why not share, when there's enough of the Bull to go both ways...'

'Corpses,' Dalish chimed, in barely refrained exasperation. 'Hostages! Corpses!'

'You're the ruin of every party, Dalish, you know that?' the Qunari sighed. 'Right. Corpses. What do you want me to do with the corpses?'

'You're killing them, chief,' Krem said, approaching and eyeing his superior in open reproach. 'Not the corpses,' he clarified.

The Bull sighed. 'No one is going to let me enjoy a second of this, I see. Fine…Look, you're all looking at me as I know something you don't but I promise you…'

'You fought on Seheron more than anyone here has,' Dorian said, shaking his head. 'You must know more.'

'No, Dorian, I don't,' the Bull answered, a tinge of anger in his voice. 'I've never even _seen_ a Fog Warrior corpse before – they never leave them behind, so you can't count them.'

He heavily leaned against a tree and beheld the small clearing with a narrowed eye. 'Fine, let's pretend I'm the expert. Two things can happen here – either there's another Fog Warrior settlement within a day's march from here, and these here sounded the alarm, in which case,' he grinned, 'we make more corpses. Other thing is we give them their corpses back – if we're not keen on making more of them…corpses, that is, maybe they'll like that.'

'There is no other settlement nearby,' Dalish said, shaking her head.

'Riight, cuz you know that with your woodsy-elfy senses?' Sera shot back.

'No,' Skinner said, approaching in turn and measuring Sera will ill-disguised despise, 'she knows that because she has been scouting the area for the past three days, since we have been sitting here idly, and waiting for this lot of Tevinter squishies to finally show face.'

'An' how I don't know that?' Sera smirked.

'Because you and the chief were off your faces the entire time,' Krem sighed. 'You only got up to puke, ask if they're here already, eat and get off your faces again.'

'Good times!' the Qunari said, punching a fist in the air. A sharp whistle, masterfully imitating a mocking bird drew his attention and made him straighten.

'There are no mocking birds in these woods,' Veldrin tensely said – she sought Dalish's eyes, and Dalish nodded.

'That's Grim's signal, so we're about to either make more corpses, or find out what they do with them,' Bull said. 'Either way…'

He straightened, and shifted his axe's hilt into position.

'Mae,' Veldrin called, but it was not needed; Maevaris stood from the injured man she was kneeling by, and came to her side; a second later, Grim, who did not say much but was talented at whistling, perched on one of the branches above.

'Mythal'enaste,' Dalish whispered.

'Fuck Mythal,' Skinner sneered, pulling her dagger.

No fog rose. White, silken banners embroidered in green led the procession up the path to the clearing, plainly visible under the branches that Veldrin had burned.

'It's all women and children,' Veldrin whispered to Dorian; he swiftly nodded, and gripped her hand.

'It might just mean their men are gathering behind us, you touchy-feely, properly wed turtle doves,' the Bull said. 'Don't let your guard down.'

They advanced too fast for too much thought to occur. 'Bull, your Qunlat is better than mine,' Veldrin hastily said.

'Your Qunlat is shit, boss,' the warrior said; he stepped forth nonetheless, then looked over his shoulder to Dorian. 'Give her back that little glowy ball of death, _Kadan,'_ The Bull said. 'Just in case.'

'Not unless I am bleeding to death,' Dorian hissed, simply holding his wife's hand tighter.

'If you're happy to wait until then, sure,' Bull shrugged, then truly went to stand before the small procession of women and children; all set knee to ground before him, and lowered their glances.

'Anaan esaam Qun1', the woman who led the procession said; a young woman behind her let her tears loose, looking at the corpses lain side by side. 'Extra Imperiae nulla salus.2' The elder added, heavily focussing on pronouncing each word and looking to Dorian.

'They're so terrified they don't even know who to talk to,' Maevaris whispered – and indeed, it was not difficult to grasp their terror and confusion, for, to their eyes, Bull still very much looked like a member of the Beresaad, while Dorian's robes and staff screamed Tevinter; the warrior and the mage exchanged glances, and Dorian took a very wide and telling step back.

'Thanks,' the Iron Bull muttered, between clenched teeth.

The sight was heart-rending, for those who were not weeping quietly had obviously been weeping before; pain and incredulity mixed on their features, and subdued anger glowed in the eyes of the younger male children. It was not hard to tell why – these people, Veldrin thought, biting her lower lip, had fought both Imperium forces and the Beresaad, and somehow survived only to be laid to waste by a group of ten misfits who did not even have the look of soldiers. And now…

Bull softly spoke in a variant of Qunlat Veldrin barely understood; she guessed that he told the village tamassran there was nothing to fear, and no reason to kneel – the woman struggled to keep her features straight, and furtively looked over her shoulder to the others, as if making sure that they had all heard the same thing. She did not stand, but raised her glance to his and responded in the same dialect.

The Qunari warrior breathed out hotly and looked to the side. 'Oh, fuck,' he said – the group before him took the brief exclamation for a sign of anger and unconsciously huddled even closer together; the prisoners fidgeted, struggling against their bonds. Skinner made her dagger glint, in open threat, rendering the air even heavier.

'What she is saying,' the Iron Bull translated, looking to the tips of his shoes as if he'd meant to set them on fire with his stare, 'is that they are but a small village, not worthy of our wrath, and that last night we have taken all but ten of their weapon carrying men.'

Veldrin nodded – that single gesture made the group before her breathe out in fear.

The female elder spoke again, in a trembling voice; the Bull translated as she spoke, this time.

'She says they do not know how to appease us, but that…'

The elder unexpectedly stood, and walked amid the others, plucking a young boy from the arms of his mother; the woman sunk her face to her fists, but those around her did not dare offer comfort – as the tamassran advanced, pushing the boy forth by the shoulders, Veldrin recognised the little scout from the previous eve, and her heart sank.

She instinctively knew what was coming.

'She hopes that the child who angered our demon will be enough of a gift to pacify it,' the Bull said, at the same time as the tamassran. His voice was trembling; hers was not. She shoved the young scout forth, then returned to kneeling under her banners, and for the first time, she looked Veldrin straight in the eyes.

Not once had she looked to the adult prisoners. She probably thought them dead already…and it was all too much to bear. Veldrin let go of Dorian's hand and took a swift step forward; had the Bull not gotten in her way, she might have picked up the child and put him back in his mother's arms, but the Qunari warrior decisively barred her path.

'I know what you want to do, boss,' he spoke, in the common tongue and in a guttural growl.

'No, you don't,' Veldrin breathed. 'I'm not a monster. I'm not a monster.'

'I know you're not,' the Iron Bull said. 'But they don't, and that is _good. Very good._ Means we won't be making any more corpses. _'_

'You're not seriously suggesting…' Dorian angrily rasped.

'I'm not,' the Qunari said, switching to Tevene. 'But if there is one thing I know about Fog Warriors is that they don't understand mercy when it's applied to them. What they do understand is fairness, fear, and respect, and at the moment, they are scared shitless of you, boss.'

'If you do what you're planning to do,' he said to Veldrin, 'which is burst into tears, give that boy a hug and put him back in his momma's arms, you'll show that you are nothing to be feared, they'll laugh about the entire thing around their fires tonight, and be back to stab us in our sleep in a day's time.'

'I'm not taking the child hostage, Bull,' Veldrin said, angrily gritting her teeth.

'No, you're not,' the Qunari nodded. 'But not because you're showing mercy, but because he's too menial a sacrifice. As are these others,' he said, somewhat too theatrically gesturing towards the bound prisoners. 'You're getting angry – good. If you feel like giving me a good smack, do it.'

'I actually feel like giving you a good smack,' the elf replied, her eyes glowing with rage.

'That's my boss,' the Bull grinned. 'The only way we keep them, and others like them off our backs is if we keep them thinking that we'll be on theirs. So what we do _now,'_ he said, 'is that you walk up there, say something in elven – whatever you want to, a prayer to Sylaise, if you're so inclined – just make it sound like you're about to blow up again, dismiss the kid, dismiss the others, and walk off, with your chin high…Now, smack me. The deal I'm bringing you is crap.'

'You can take a man out of the Ben-Hassrath, but you can't take the Ben-Hassrath out of the man,' Dorian muttered – and cringed as Veldrin did smack the Qunari, not once, but twice, then brushed past him to glare at the Fog Warriors.

She spoke in a low, raspy voice, clearly pronouncing each word, and making the sweet tongue of the Elvhen sound like the most terrible of Old Tevene curses; Bull spoke softly from behind her, and all watched as the assembled Fog Warriors began to truly shiver in terror. In truth, the combination of Veldrin's angrily recited words and Iron Bull's hiss was terrifying to even their own group.

Except, of course, those who actually spoke Elvhen.

'Don't laugh,' Skinner hissed, to Dalish. 'For fuck's sake, don't blow it.'

'Trying,' Dalish hissed back. 'Not sure how long I can hold it…'

Fortunately, the two very different ordeals were soon finished; Veldrin dismissed it all with a wave of her arm, and walked to the back of her own group, staff in fiery focus – in terror induced haste, the Fog Warriors stood, rushing to free their men, and collect the corpses of their dead; the boy who'd been at the center of it all was shaking so hard that his mother had to carry him away – it was only when the thoroughly defeated Fog Warriors had truly disappeared amid the trees, and Grim gave another mocking bird whistle, signaling the all clear, that Dalish could hold herself no longer, and collapsed to the ground laughing so hard she had to hold her stomach.

Veldrin had to take but one look at her, and started laughing too, tears streaming though the corners of her eyes.

'Some demon you are, _lethallan_ ,' Dalish managed. 'You almost killed me there…'

'What's wit ya?' Sera spat. 'Ya just made all those poor people shit themselves, and now you're laughing your asses off? Ya wrong in the head or summat?'

'Yes,' Maevaris said, scowling horribly. 'I fail to see the funny side of any of this. What the hell did she say?' she asked Skinner. 'It made _my_ blood freeze…'

The city elf measured her through half lidded eyes. 'Well, that could be because you're a delicate blossom, _Vint_.'

'Ey, Skinner, play nicely,' the Bull said, glancing at Dalish and Vel and shaking his head in confusion of his own. 'That slap couldn't have fooled a grandmother, but you sounded like you were conjuring a high dragon…What did you say?'

'Oh come on,' Dalish managed, propping herself on one elbow. 'What could possibly make an elf – a dalish elf – sound _that_ angry? She recited half the Canticle of Shartan…'

'…the part where Andraste named him her champion,' Vel completed, between her own chuckles. 'I am sure Cassie's hat is on fire - hope she's not wearing it...'

Maevaris sighed in defeat, and Dorian unceremoniously slapped his forehead.

* * *

1 Victory is in the Qun

2 Nothing succeeds outside the Imperium

* * *

Well, at least some of our heroes still have a sense of humour after terrifying the local populace and half of their own party o.O The rest of them, as we see, are not positively impressed :P

Up next - Great food, but not great fun will be had by all.

Thank you for reading and commenting


	22. Clarifications

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._

 _Foul and corrupt are they_

 _Who have taken His gift_

 _And turned it against His children._

 _They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._

 _They shall find no rest in this world_

 _Or beyond._

 **Transfigurations 1, 7:13**

* * *

They were not shy of making a fire that night – it was still unwise, but it strangely felt good to be unwise, if only for a few hours; deer _a la_ Dalish proved a success, perhaps hasted on its way down by quite a few of the many kegs of ale and rum that the Chargers had somehow managed to carry on to the island.

It had turned out, that when it came to transportation to Seheron, relationships trumped money all the way. It was true, the Chargers and Sera had come to the island landing in Seheron only mentionable city and cutting it dangerously close to Par Vollen. It was also true that they had had much more ground to cover to reach Ath Velanis; on the other hand, they had made the crossing like kings, and, while on land, had had little to worry about from pirates and Tal Vashoth, because they were on exceptional terms with the former, and the latter had nothing to fear from them, so both had left them be.

They also looked as if, rum aside, they'd been carrying nothing of value; judging by how easily Red Jennies all over the continent had obtained the artifacts Radonis had pointed to, they might not even have been. The orb, the shield and the two swords had been literally gathering dust – the orb as a staircase ornament in Nevarra, the shield in the basement of an Orlesian chantry, and the two swords, crossed above the fireplace in a minor Grey Warden base. If anyone had ever known what these had once been, they'd all forgotten.

'Easiest marks ever!' Sera had proclaimed, once, one after the other, all but the original members of the band had retired to their bedspreads. 'Was harder to get at their breeches.'

'But you did get the breeches?' Dorian queried.

'Not in the Chantry, but for the rest of 'em, yeh,' the blonde elf said; Dorian laughed.

'Great,' he said. 'The thought of an entire fortress of pants-less Grey Wardens…'

'You're incorrigible,' Veldrin had theatrically sighed, admitting to herself that she, too found the thought amusing.

'And you're not drunk enough for a serious talk yet, boss,' the Bull said, refilling Veldrin's cup, and chuckling as her eyes widened in terror.

'I'm tipsy though,' she protested, then cast a pleading glance at Dorian. He shifted closer to her, but softly shook his head.

'You're on your own for this one, Amata,' he said, nonetheless putting his arm around her shoulders. The woman sighed.

'Alright,' Veldrin said, her glance shifting between Sera and Bull. 'I don't even where to start, so, maybe you guys should ask…'

'You two getting it on?' Sera queried, looking to Vel and Dorian with an expression that was half bewilderment, half insane amusement. Veldrin rolled her eyes.

'Creators, Sera! No, we're not – is that the first thing of importance that pops to mind?'

'Na, but it's the funniest,' the other elf replied. with a shrug. 'Cuz the other stuff ain't fun at all – like, how ya grew ya hand back, how ya turning into Coryphenus an'…'

'Why you did not tell any of us about any of this sooner,' Bull completed, his expression turning dead serious.

'I am sorry,' Veldrin whispered.

'That doesn't cut it, boss,' the Qunari said, shaking his head.

Veldrin lowered her glance to her cup, thinking that perhaps he'd been right in the first instance; she was not nearly drunk enough to answer that, yet. She drank it all in one go, feeling her eyes water at the taste.

'I would not have told you at all,' she slowly answered. 'I am unsure I am glad Dorian did, though it is so good to see you all again…'

She drew a deep breath. 'There are many things I could invoke,' Veldrin followed. 'I could say that secrecy was paramount, and that is why I dissolved the Inquisition in the first place; I could insult you and tell you I thought this was beyond your reach, as only Tevinter can hope to match his magic, but…'

Solas' last words to her spun in her mind, along with the rum. ' _He_ said we should live well for as long as we have left,' Veldrin whispered, 'and I guess that is what I hoped you were all doing.'

'That's equally insulting,' the Qunari seriously replied. Sera solemnly nodded.

'Don't it strike ya that if ya'd spilled the beans sooner, ya wouldn't be turning bat-shit crazy on your own? Or, well…' Sera mumbled, giving Dorian the stink-eye.

'None of this is Dorian's fault,' Veldrin decisively refuted. 'He's fought my…eh, newly acquired talents tooth and nail.'

'Up to the point where I realised we truly have no conventional way of defeating Solas,' the Magister added, biting his lower lip. 'If I…if we,' he corrected, 'had thought for a minute that an arrow through the heart or an axe to the skull would stop him, we would have involved you all a lot sooner.'

'Alright,' the Bull said, with a smirk. 'That's slightly better than a simple apology, though not by a lot. Aren't glowy balls of death a bit too much in Solas' domain though?'

'I worry about this as well,' Veldrin replied, with a shrug.

'I don't,' Dorian said, shaking his head. 'If we look back on the year of the Inquisition knowing what we now know, the one thing that stands out is that Solas may be excellent at his ancient magic, and perhaps none of us is his match; still, this is a man that has slept through the entire history of Tevinter and he understands very little about _us._ He would not have underestimated Corypheus otherwise.'

'I think he can handle his foci,' the Magister followed, 'but I don't think he can handle somnaboriae to the same extent. Tevinter may have stolen Elvhenan's magic, but we've also transformed it, and taken it a different path than the Elvhen themselves might have…'

'Yeh, yeh, all the way up to the Golden City, an' all the way down to the effing Blights,' Sera smirked.

'You'll laugh – or not,' Dorian shrugged, 'but that is a very valid point, and one that works in our favour. Solas slept though the fall of Arlathan; he slept though the corruption of the Golden City. He has magic we don't understand, but we have magic he doesn't understand, either.'

'None of this is makin' me feel better,' the blonde elf mumbled.

'Drink more,' Iron Bull absent-mindedly said, his entire attention consumed by Dorian and Veldrin.

'Easy for you to say, innit,' Sera replied, with a horrible scowl. 'Ain't like ya came all the way here holding Lukakasan's Eye an' Dumat's wrinkly jewels an' spine and shit, an' not knowin' you were, for fuck's sake!'

'Drink _a lot_ more,' the Qunari sighed. 'So, what is the plan?' he asked, leaning forward.

'Nothing,' Veldrin said, suddenly feeling frightened. 'You go home.'

'…and hold our balls, waiting to see if the sky will fall in or not? Nah,' the Bull refuted simply.

'Bull, please,' Vel said, 'if I had my way I would not even have involved Dorian or Maevaris. I don't want to put you in the way of this.'

'But it ain't you putting anyone in the way of anything, innit?' Sera shot. 'It's Solas, or Fen'Hassel, or whatever his name is – betcha ya guys did it doggy style more often than not, eh?'

'Sera…' Dorian warned, his expression suddenly turning to concern.

'Well, I was right 'bout the 'Elvhen glory!' part, now, wasn't I?' the blonde snarled.

'You were,' Veldrin acidly replied, though Dorian had opened his mouth to speak before she did. 'You were also right about the rebuilding the empire part; the only thing you were wrong about was the dropping 'em and bumping bits, which to my confessed great dismay, never happened.'

Sera cranked her nose. 'Like, never-ever?'

'Yes, like never-ever; we did make out very creatively, however, and I did near-climax when he tore my arm off.' Vel furiously responded.

'Easy, boss,' Bull said, inching back slightly; it was obvious, however, that mastering himself and not drawing had taken great effort. For a split second, Veldrin did not understand why, yet Sera jerked back in fright too.

'It's alright,' Dorian said. Unlike the others, he simply tightened his grip on her shoulders.

'What…' Veldrin began to ask, shaking her head. 'Why are you all of a sudden…'

… _scared of me…_

She knew why, though; she felt it in every fiber of her body…she'd just hoped against hope that…

'Because your eyes are glowing red, Amata,' Dorian soothingly whispered. 'And because…'

He did not need to end the sentence; he merely guided her glance towards the place where they'd stacked their weapons – twenty feet off and with no need for physical contact, the somnaborium was flaring in fierce focus as well.

'Oh Gods,' Vel whispered, dropping the cup to hide her face in her hands, and hastily standing to stumble away from her friends. 'I am sorry, I am so sorry…I have to…'

She had no strength to finish the phrase; all she could think of was putting one foot in front of the other and walking off as fast as she could. When she was away from the firelight, and alone in the darkness of her regrets, she fell to her knees, embraced a tree and wept.

Around the fire, the other three sat in silence for a few long moments. Sera found her voice first.

'Andraste's cunt,' she said – neutrally, for she was still too shocked to lend her tone any inflection.

'Yes,' Dorian agreed, in an equally neutral tone. 'You can say that.'

The Qunari warrior bit his lower lip. 'Does that happen often?' he asked, oddly sounding the least phased of them all. Dorian shook his head in response.

'It's the first time I see it, but I have been expecting it for some time.' he answered. He pressed his fingers to his forehead. 'I could explain to you why it technically happened _now_ ,' Dorian tiredly followed. 'Self-control lowered by the rum, Sera sticking her fist into an open wound and twisting it, the intensity of the spell last night, the power of the focus object, but…'

'I don't wanna hear it,' the blonde elf breathed, darting to her feet. 'I fucking don't. Shit.'

'Then it is, perhaps, for the best if you do leave,' Dorian said, smiling sadly.

'Are you?' Iron Bull bluntly asked; the Magister looked on his wife's trail, then shook his head.

'No.'

'Even though this can only get worse,' the Qunari said. It was not a question.

'Precisely because of that,' Dorian nodded. 'She is still our Veldrin, and she has not done this to herself for entertainment.'

'And you are not afraid of her,' the Bull said. This was not a question, either.

'I actually find myself feeling oddly proud,' the Magister replied, narrowing his eyes.

Sera looked to them both, then ran her fingers through her short hair with enough rage to yank out a fistful. She too looked on Veldrin's trail, with an unreadable expression, then slowly sat back down, and refilled her ale keg with rum.

'Well, shit,' she said. 'I can't freaking believe…I am doing this. Again. What the fuck do we do if she turns? Eh? Have either of ya ballsy heroes considered _that?_ '

Dorian helplessly shrugged. 'If she turns before we face Solas, or during, we lose our world to Solas' Elvhenan. If she turns in the aftermath…We have slain plenty of abominations before, Sera.'

'Only,' the Bull interrupted, 'this one would be our Veldrin. _Your_ Veldrin, Kadan.'

The Magister stared blankly into the fire. 'If she does turn, she will not be that anymore.'

'So, what's the plan?' the Bull asked, resting his elbows on his knees and breaking the long silence which seemed to have encased them in granite.

Then, Dorian told them – the Iron Bull drank his keg to the bottom, with deliberate slowness; Sera cursed.

Neither walked away.

* * *

Hello all, and sigh, that was coming, and I guess we all knew it.

We shall be slowing down a bit on the posting. This time Abstract to blame, for she is out on a mission to turn herself into Rambo and out-army IVI in North Wales (Loads of sheep out here, people! erm, but not many people...), but we shall be seeing you next Monday, same demonic possession time, same demonic possession channel.

Thank you all for reading and commenting!

Cheers,

Abstract & IVI


	23. More Friends than You Know

_Let the blade pass through the flesh,_

 _Let my blood touch the ground,_

 _Let my cries touch their hearts._

 _Let mine be the last sacrifice._

 **Andraste 7:12**

* * *

Dalish set knee to ground and rested her hand to the bare, polished granite before lowering her glance and beginning to pray under her breath. Veldrin did not join her – not because she did not wish to, but because her knee joins felt as if they'd suddenly turned into stone too.

They'd found it.

It had taken them three days to work out its positioning from Varric's descriptions, but they had found it; the hardest part had been working out the dwarf's actual landing point, their debates on the matter not eased by the fact that the one person who oddly covered the most ground, Grim, truly said no more than _Hm_ , if he was doubtful, or _Hrmph_ , if he outright disagreed.

Skinner and Sera had proved useless at scouting; as nimble and oriented as both might have been on city rooftops and dark alleys, they were utterly lost in the forest. The realisation deeply bothered Skinner, who'd grudgingly admitted to her skills not being as honed as they might have been one day in, and settled for shadowing Veldrin in her own explorations; the former Inquisitor suspected she'd earned Skinner's company because Sera did not wish to be alone with her, and could not outright blame her. She had not been brave enough to apologise for the outburst, and did not want to be alone with Sera either.

She'd nonetheless been very surprised when Sera had refused to do any further scouting, either on her own, or in Dalish's company. On the second eve, when Veldrin had been explaining how she found her way through the undergrowth to a very interested Skinner, Sera had stood from the fire and walked off in a visible huff. Veldrin had motioned to stop her, but Dalish had put her hand on Vel's arm, keeping her in place.

'Do not concern yourself, lethallan,' the blonde elven mage had said. 'She is…apart from herself.'

The fact that Dalish had used the exact same words that Solas once had had given Veldrin pause, as well as heartache, and though she could not have known from whence the heartache stemmed, Dalish had smiled, kindly.

'Anything woodsy-elfy is too much for her,' Dalish had shrugged.

'And she's getting to be a bit too much for me,' Skinner had added, in a low mutter. 'I've never met one of the people who wished to be a Shem so badly.'

'She doesn't want to be a Shem,' Dalish had replied, in a tone of voice so gentle that Veldrin could see why she bore the markings of Sylaise. 'She simply doesn't know how to see herself; we each, in our own ways, know who we are, because…we've each belonged?' she'd said.

'As if anyone belongs in an alienage,' Skinner had snarled, sounding utterly unconvinced.

'That's not what she means, Skin,' Vel had thoughtfully added, looking on Sera's trail. 'None belongs in an alienage but you grew up in one, and you know… You know where you come from – with good and bad, it defines you. I and Dalish know where we come from, too.'

Dalish had nodded. 'Whereas Sera is neither Elvhen nor Shem. In true terms, she's not even a flat ear…'

'Say those words to my face again and you'll end up with a very interesting haircut, Dalish!' Skinner had menaced, flashing her dagger; Veldrin had known she was not joking, yet Dalish had simply shrugged.

'The fact that Sera does not know where she belongs is not her fault and should not anger you,' the blonde mage had said. 'I don't think she wants to be Elvhen or Shem, she wants to be something else entirely, and if she doesn't want to learn how to scout forests, we should leave her alone.'

'She's still a bloody elf,' Skinner had smirked.

'She's just a person whose pain is different from yours,' Dalish had responded. 'Leave it.' She'd said – and Skinner had.

It had been Dalish to find the ruined altar atop which they were standing now. She had not dared scale it alone, however, despite the fact that it was neither terribly high nor difficult to climb.

'It's just evil,' Dalish had said, after returning to camp, and having Grim signal to all others to return. 'I am not going up there alone.'

'If you have not been up, how can you distinguish this is, indeed, the correct one?' Maevaris had questioned. 'The devotional magic circles would be atop it, you…'

'Trust me, Vint,' Dalish had dryly said. 'This is it, and it is an altar to the Chaos Wrym. I can still smell the blood…and there was a lot of it, Mythal'enaste. Sylaise'enaste.'

'There we go again with the woodsy-elfy fourth sense and non-words,' Sera had snapped. 'I betcha I can go up there and feel nuthin'.'

'I doubt anyone can go up there and feel _nothing_ , Sera,' Dalish had answered, giving the rogue a hard look, and visibly restraining herself from saying anything further – this time, not because she favoured being a peacekeeper, but because she somehow inherently felt that this was a battle she would win without fighting.

Judging by the look on Sera's features now, she had.

Had she not known that Dalish had sensed the place's malevolent vibrations from afar, Veldrin might have thought that the intense malaise she was experiencing was due to the blood magic, and to the demon that was circling – yet…

Creators, Veldrin thought, it wasn't.

The veil was so thin that she had the sensation she could simply put her hand out and reach thought it, and even the echo of what the ancient Magisters had called to, here, filled her mouth with an odd, metallic taste and caused her joints to become stiff. She'd often wondered how a few priests and acolytes had managed to subdue hundreds of sacrifices – she wondered no longer, now; it was not only the dulled circle under their feet that was powerfully enchanted, it was the entire, massive granite block. In the prime of its magic, its aura would have been immense.

For once, Sera was silent, her glance fixed and dull, as if she had suddenly been yanked from her senses; the irony that Dalish's whispered prayers would certainly have conjured under different circumstances remained frozen on her lips. Skinner did not fare better, for all colour had drained from her face and she too was staring blankly in the distance, and even though he did not seem as affected by the vibrations as the elves were, Grim too looked uneasy.

They had truly found it – for a moment, Veldrin wished they hadn't.

Dorian pulled himself over the edge of the rock with a huff, and woke her from the nightmare – she cast a small cleansing spell, then a more powerful one. Sera breathed deeply, and furiously shook her head. She still could not find her voice.

'Maker,' Dorian said, looking about himself in awe.

'Why…' Sera began swallowing dry. 'Why didn't Varric say…'

'He would not have felt it,' Veldrin responded, softly. 'He's a dwarf.'

'Felt what?' Dorian questioned, with a little frown. 'What is wrong, Amata?' he again queried, in obvious concern.

'There's an enchantment here,' Dalish responded, stepping up to their side. 'It's similar to some hold or confusion…I do not know; it's still, however, remarkably strong, after all these centuries.'

Veldrin nodded. 'Must be tailored to target elves, and akin to the discomfort you said you experienced while travelling though the eluvians, Dorian.'

'Well, that's not good,' the human answered. 'That was one of the most unpleasant things I have ever felt – if this holds true for the fortress proper, then we shall have some serious re-planning to do…'

'…what…' Sera breathed, showing that the dispell was only providing minor solace. 'What the fuck was done here?' she finished, in a low hiss.

'What do _you_ think was done here?' Skinner hissed in return; the dark haired rogue furiously shook her head, and threw Dorian a murderous glare. 'Care to explain it to the Shem with the pointy ears, Vint? Or should I? Lost for words?'

'Skin, don't,' Veldrin said, finding that her own tone lacked conviction.

'Because I think I can explain it,' Skinner furiously followed, beginning to pace. 'Here,' she said, whipping her arm to the side, to point to a flat, dulled rock, 'is where this one's grandfather slit your throat, and while your blood poured out of your body into this neat little circle they scratched on the rock, they grabbed the next one in line and…'

Sera pressed her clenched fists to her ears. 'Stop it,' she whispered; Skinner did not hear her, or simply did not care.

'The only thing I'm wondering about, Tevinter,' she said, though fiercely clenched teeth, 'is what they did with the bodies – did they do a nice pile, or just flung them…'

Dalish embraced her, then, and though she struggled for a heartbeat, Skinner put her arms around the other Charger's shoulders and let loose the tears that had been gathering in the corners of her eyes.

'I am so sorry', Dorian whispered; Dalish looked to him and shook her head, trying to smile, and much like she wished she could have prayed, Veldrin desperately wished that she could cry.

It was thus that cold and dark descended upon them long before the sun set; Skinner had not said anything further, to Dorian, Sera, or anyone else. Still, it was not until she'd heard Dalish speaking to Dorian as if from the far end of a long corridor that Veldrin had realised she too could barely look his way, and how poignantly aware of it he was, despite the other wild elf's efforts.

She felt numb, but knew she needed to remain so. A single inkling of Skin's rage atop this accursed rock might have spelled disaster, so Veldrin put it all out of her mind – the circle, the dragon statue, Sera's pallor, and simply focused on practical actions and little successes.

This was indeed Varric's entry point. The rope he'd tied about the base of the dragon statue had long rotted, but the hook he'd used to make it cling was still there; they'd lowered it into the narrow shaft to measure its depth, but run out of their own rope before it reached the bottom. The shaft ran much deeper than its surface height indicated yet its width seemed to remain relatively constant, for, as the rope ran down in Grim's steady hands, Varric's now rusty hook had only hit the walls once or twice.

With daylight dimming, and having renewed the protection spells on her non-magic wielding companions three times, Veldrin had judged it wise to leave further explorations to morning, as the others had started collecting the few things they'd brought up, she'd finally worked up the courage to approach Dorian, who stood alone on the far edge of the altar, looking out.

'You must believe I have never seen anything like this,' the man said, in a soft tone. 'There is nothing even remotely similar left in the Imperium…I would have warned you, if I'd known. I would have rather braved the front gate rather than this,' Dorian sighed, 'if I'd known.'

'It's not your fault, Amatus,' Veldrin answered; he humourlessly laughed.

'You do know that House Pavus' lineage predates the corruption of the Golden City, right?' he bitterly queried. 'It might not have been my grandfather, but…it is not improbable,' Dorian rapidly followed, 'that one of my glorious ancestors would have stood atop an altar like this one, and done precisely what Skinner described, you do realise that, yes?'

'I do,' the elf said. 'But it is not relevant anymore, Dorian.'

'Tell that to Skin,' the man replied. 'Tell it to yourself – did you notice how you…'

'Yes, I did, and I am sorry,' the woman sighed. 'It was instinctive. I don't even know how much of it is simply proof of the history we all already knew or simply the physical malaise…We'll be down in a few minutes,' she said, looking over her shoulder to Dalish, and rightly guessing that the blonde mage had approached them to say the company was eager to be away from the spot.

Dalish simply nodded. 'Don't stay too long after dark,' she said; it was not until all the others had descended that either Vel or Dorian spoke again.

The elf sat on the stone, dangling her feet over the edge; a moment and a sigh later, Dorian joined her.

'I do wonder what they did with the bodies,' he non-directionally said.

'Want to go down to this side of the thing, and see if we find piles of bones?' Vel asked. 'Or well, maybe the place had a self contained cleaning dynamic - maybe they succeeded in summoning the dragon, and the dragon ate the corpses – pronto, prontissimo, clean altar.'

He reproachfully frowned.

'Questionable humour not helping, at this point?' she asked, inching a bit closer.

'No, not right now,' Dorian muttered. 'This is a terrible position to be stuck in, Amata,' he softly followed. 'I do feel guilty, and I think Dalish was right. No one could stand atop this thing and _feel_ nothing, but if I speak of how I feel, it is almost as if I, the heir and beneficiary of the perpetrators was asking you, the survivors, for sympathy; I cannot even say that I am truthfully sorry, but if I say nothing, then…'

'Would it help if I told you that human discomfort at the eluvian travel gave me a bit of an, eh, sense of triumph?' Vel asked.

'It's not like you went out of your way to hide it, Vel,' he smirked. 'I think that is part of what made you and Solas so annoying to Sera; neither of you said anything even remotely rude but…you were visibly enjoying it – I mean, Solas offered to carry Vivienne's water pouch, in case it was too heavy for her and the reason why she was moving so slowly.'

'He was just being polite,' Veldrin shrugged, snickering regardless. 'I can assure you the reason why I offered to carry your hip flask had nothing to do with, you know – _Our magic still beats yours, ha-ha.'_

'I noticed when you returned it empty,' Dorian replied, finally cracking a smile.

'I made it lighter for you,' she protested. 'I factually helped. It's true, Sera did most of the helping, but, you know the saying about looking a gift elf in the mouth…I apologise for behaving as I did, today,' the elf earnestly said.

'You really should not voice that,' he replied, shaking his head.

'Then let me phrase it differently,' Veldrin softly retorted. 'I am sorry I let this place get to me, and forget that you are my best friend, too. We've always known who we are – let's not let yet another thing get in between us. We already have enough.'

Dorian distractedly nodded, not looking even a tad more at ease. 'None of this is auspicious, Amata,' he said, at long length. 'Starting with the fact that the magic of this place hinders you, and ending in the very real possibility that I will wake up without my testicles tomorrow morning, courtesy of Skin.'

'Oh, come on,' Veldrin replied. 'This is Skin we're talking about – the same Skin who has been fighting alongside Krem for years, and robbed you blind playing drunken Wicked Grace.'

'Krem may be a Vint, but he's not a Magister,' Dorian responded, 'and all of that was before today and this place. Maker, I wish she hadn't…cried. I wish she'd punched me, or come at me with the dagger, but not cried, and above all I wish we had not run across a problem that drinking more could not solve at this very precise moment.'

He bit his lower lip. 'I thought I was taking a calculated risk with Sera,' he followed. 'She has always been uneasy around magic, and I knew that your use of blood magic would not sit well with her at all – I still thought that she would reluctantly get over it because this is _you,_ and she admires you as she admires no other living person.'

'You're exaggerating,' the woman refuted; Dorian resolutely shook his head.

'No,' he said. 'Why do you think she's being so testy about all the woodsy-elfy everything? She thought she knew you, and now she sees you have greatly changed, so, she doesn't know what to make of you anymore. She's simply rejecting uncertainty - she's never liked the idea of you with Solas, but it made you real, in a way.'

'I thought dumping a bucket of water on Josie's head did that,' Vel smirked.

'That too,' the man said, 'but you, for however briefly, even humanised Solas…Not to be taken as made him _human_ , but…around you, he was less then flawless; he actually laughed, got annoyed, got jealous – don't think I missed the fact that all of our flirting in the library made him really want your opinion on his murals, right then and there. Before Redcliffe, when my not so secret inclination was revealed, I could swear he'd clock me one right in the nose every time he passed me by.'

'You should have heard him when me and Sera tried to prank Leliana, and in so doing dropped an entire bucket of lime white on his carefully painted black background,' Vel chuckled. 'The look on his face when we first met after I delivered the – _Nothing up here but us nugs!_ – then ran off laughing was utterly priceless. And I could not stop laughing, either; he was so annoyed…'

'He is not a man who likes things not going according to plan,' Dorian bitterly smiled.

'Maybe he should have planned better,' Vel whispered.

'So far, I would say his planning is almost flawless…Apologise to Sera, Vel,' he said, pulling her close. 'She is not right, and you are not completely wrong, but one of you needs to take a first step, and she is frightened. Solas wins by turning his foes on themselves, and he is winning here without even fighting,' Dorian softly followed. 'We've already lost Leliana and Cassandra, and we are weaker for it. What we found atop this rock is nothing compared to what we will find beneath it, I wager – Mae is scared, I am scared, Sera is scared…'

'And you think I am not?'

'No, I think you are the only one not admitting you are,' the man said. 'Just talk to Sera, please, Amata…Your fear and her fear are distractions, and you're not being my practical little sprite precisely when I need you to be exactly that. I cannot feel what Sera and Skinner felt, you and Dalish had to fight it. This is both good and bad; if this accursed place is crippling elves, it will cripple Solas too, yet, then it follows that…'

'The Old Gods' weapons may not solely affect him,' Vel gently replied; the Tevinter Magister nodded.

'Radonis said it will be hard for you to use them on one of the people,' Dorian said. 'I think he underestimated the shame I and Mae will feel in re-energising them, and while I rationally know I have never hurt a slave, that I have never worshipped a dragon, that I…that _we_ are no longer the Ancients, the shame is heavy and crippling. And unnecessary.'

In the distance, the searing sun tentatively kissed the sea; atop a place of suffering past yet stiflingly present, the human embraced the elf, and she rested her temple on his shoulder.

'What is necessary is that you, and I, and Mae and Dalish start thinking on how we cripple Solas without crippling you.' Dorian said, putting his chin on the top of his wife's head. 'This will be hard enough technically and focus wise – there is no place for shame or sorrow, or cold between friends in this calculation, Amata.'

'No, now is not the time,' Vel answered.

'Apologise to Sera. Not because we need her, but because…'

'…because she is my friend. And I have fewer and fewer every day that goes by.'

'Because you have more friends than you care to acknowledge,' Dorian said, kissing her forehead.

The sun was now half in the sea's embrace; the human and the elf were fully into each other's.

'You know what else worries me? Practicality assumed.' Vel said.

'Hm?' Dorian asked. The sunset was too beautiful to look away from.

'There's no way that that statue's pedestal can hold the Bull's weight. I mean, Varric is stout, but the Bull is…'

Dorian laughed, and Veldrin's heart felt light as a breeze; the human stood, glanced at the statue of the Chaos Dragon, then down the shaft.

'I have a way to fix that one,' he said, propping his shoulder against the statue and pushing, as if he'd meant to topple it across the opening; it was her turn to laugh, and he gave her a scornful frown. 'Don't laugh at me, elf, come help me,' Dorian said; she added her efforts to his, and though they managed not a slither of the physical might needed to topple Zazikel's statue, they focused and managed to do so with their magic.

When the statue fell, the dragon's wings shattered and bits of them bounced off the walls of the shaft that led into the depths of the unknown fear; they both laughed and panted.

'There,' Dorian said; Veldrin wiped her brow of sweat.

* * *

More dungeon crawling now and ahead - we hope you enjoy reading as we both enjoy our dungeon scenes :)


	24. A Dress Rehersal

_Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls._  
 _From these emerald waters doth life begin anew._  
 _Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you._  
 _In my arms lies Eternity._

 _-Andraste 14:11_

* * *

Iron Bull was a depiction of perfect misery; in fact, had Veldrin not known better, she could have suspected he might even have been blushing.

'Well,' he blurted, 'we could at least have gotten someone _nice_ to oil me up.'

'I am not enjoying this, either, chief,' Krem smirked, shaking his hands of oil in utter disgust. 'But if we had gotten someone _nice_ to oil you, you would have gotten a stiffie – yeah, yeah, don't look at me as if I didn't know what I am talking about! – and then you really wouldn't have fit through that shaft.'

'Oh my, what a compliment…Should this be true to nature, I shall wipe you down once we're through,' Maevaris purred, in open flirt; true to himself, the Qunari grinned wide.

'I'll take that as a promise.' He answered.

'Oooh boy, here we go,' Sera muttered, in mock dismay; she gave Veldrin a wink, and Veldrin smiled in return.

They had already lowered their supplies, and none had been pleasantly surprised by the crevice's actual depth – the granite block rose some thirty feet off the ground, yet the entry point Varric had discovered led a hundred and fifty feet down. Still, with four mages constantly focused on dispelling the crippling aura of the place, the mood was lighter – albeit, only slightly so.

Dorian's advice had gone a long way in easing Sera's mind, and Veldrin was truly grateful for it; the toppled statue had helped too, for Skinner was no longer giving Dorian murderous glances. None knew what awaited below. The small – or, in Bull's case, large – practical niggles had kept them all occupied, however, and it was for the best; Skinner had already made the journey to the depth twice, and assured them that, other than having to file Bull's horns down for a couple of tighter spots, there was no immediate danger. Grim had also gone down and stayed down, to guard the supplies, and he'd not yet tugged on the rope to signal the presence of others.

They had therefore decided to face the greatest obstacle head on, and lower the Iron Bull before any of the mages.

'If he gets stuck, we can jump on 'is head and un-stuck him,' Sera had declared; the Bull had muttered something in Qunlat which none had bothered to translate, but had agreed to the plan for the simple reason that he did not think that the toppled statue would be resistant enough to hold his weight, and thus some serious counter-pulling of the rope would be required.

'You don't weigh _that_ much,' Dorian had reassuringly said. The back and forth banter on _how_ precisely Dorian knew that had made all chuckle knowingly, and had rendered Maevaris surprisingly interested in the warrior. Verily, Vel had told herself, the blonde woman had quite the array of tastes.

Veldrin herself felt as if her shoulders were wrought in iron.

The various cleansing spells had worked wonders on the others, yet Veldrin and Dalish still felt the oppressive nature of the ancient magic. For what was worse, Dorian and Maevaris had made frightfully fast progress on the orb Sera had stolen, and both elven mages could literally taste its energy, even though it had been kept as far away from them as it possibly could have, for the moment. Skinner's excursions down the shaft had brought some comfort, as the city elf swore the aura of the giant sacrifice altar did not extend far underground. All had sadly agreed that both Veldrin and Dalish would have to make contact with Lusacan's Eye soon, so that the human mages, who did not feel its aura as poison, could devise some way to protect them.

'We can't give you a cure until we see the disease, sweetness,' Maevaris had said, attempting to sound reassuring, but only managing to sound apologetic. Dalish had shrugged, forgetting to remind all that she was most definitely _not_ a mage, and Veldrin had nodded.

 _First things first,_ she'd told herself. _First things first._

The Iron Bull had not even fully disappeared down the shaft before the rope slipped a dangerous eight feet causing him to descend hazardously fast and curse profusely, for Dorian's assessment of his weight proved painfully inaccurate – all eight of the others had to desperately hold on to the rope just to assure the Qunari would not simply tumble down. To one his size, the passage was so narrow that he could not even prop his knees on the opposite wall, for extra support. The first thirty feet of his descent were all fun and giggles; the second thirty, silent grunts, while on the last, there was no hiding that Dorian's hands were bleeding from the friction, and that the rope was getting slippery.

When his feet touched the ground, the eight who were sustaining him literally collapsed, with exhaustion as well as relief.

'Remind me to devise a levitation spell for when he has to come up,' Dorian muttered, as Veldrin saw to his hands and Sera started making her way down. 'My perfection was not designed for this,' the man whined; Vel caressed his cheek, and lifted herself on her toes to give him a peck on the lips.

'I'm…' she began.

'If you say you're sorry one more time, I shall transform you into a newt,' he mockingly menaced, kissing her forehead – and, one by one, raw hands, insecure feet and frozen hearts, they made their way down, into the darkness. Veldrin was down last, and Grim made his way up to guard the entrance to the shaft as soon as she'd reached the bottom.

Maevaris had already dotted the chamber with dull, magical lights, and was sitting down upon a coffer, her nose buried in Varric's book, while, to her sides and once more in their domain of chambers and ladders and tunnels, Sera and Skinner disagreed in hushed whispers on which corridor to explore first.

'Varric writes he went…' Maevaris began to say.

'On the wide path leading west, yes,' Skinner muttered. 'Which is where we should be heading.'

'Suuure,' Sera sneered. ''Cuz we oughta go where the other guy went, an' assume no one knows he went that way and put up some shit defences. Defo an inside the box thinker ya are, Skin. If Varric went down that tunnel,' she added, 'we defo wanna go the other way. All leads to the same, right?'

'Ooooh, Vints,' Skinner breathed out, in utter fury, 'you have so much to answer for with this one!'

By miracle, Maevaris managed to dodge the city elf's hastily whipped out arm, which swished above her head in Sera's general direction. She did not raise her eyes from the book for a single bat of an eyelid.

'Don't make me separate you two,' the Bull warned both elves. 'I still got rope burn in my arm pits, fucking fuck!'

'Actually,' Dalish put in, calmly, 'I agree with Skin.'

'An' how'd I know that?' Sera muttered.

'Well,' Maevaris spoke, 'since all of you for various reasons resisted the Imperium's version of democracy, this is not a question of voting. Dalish,' she prompted, finally looking up from the book. 'You can feel it, can't you?'

The blonde elf mage nodded. 'Yes.' Dalish said. 'Varric did something tremendously stupid at the end of the corridor leading west. He thinned the veil…'

'He shot a maghrallen – that is to say, a somnaborium, or glowy ball of death, if you are inclined to call it that - and catapulted all the company into the fade.' Maevaris corrected. 'Long way of saying tremendously stupid – but the diagrams we are down here for are in the room where he did the stupid thing, and I should like to not spend one minute more down here than I have to.'

'So let's send in the Qunari to fight the defences and the elves to disarm 'em traps cuz you humans wanna be outta here,' Sera said.

Maevaris looked up and smiled a resplendently sad smile. 'Precisely.'

'Also,' Krem said, 'I _am_ human, and I am not leaving the chief's side. So, easy on discovering your roots, now, Sera.'

'I can go with you and cast some protection spells,' Dorian offered; Mae measured him up and down, her glance pointedly settling on his bandaged hands, then slowly shifting to the boxes where the artefacts rested.

'No, sweetness, you can't,' she dryly said. 'We have other things planned.'

'He can cast even with his hands like this,' Veldrin said, softly.

'Indeed, and he will,' Mae said. 'As will I. But we shan't be disarming or detecting traps, that is all on you, Sera and Skin. Bull…'

Veldrin felt small, so, very small and grateful when the Qunari warrior put his arm about her and squeezed her tightly to his chest.

The room they had descended into was large – some sixty by sixty feet, with a twenty-foot-high ceiling – with the altar looming above it, it was perfect for testing the Old God's weapons, yet all that Veldrin wanted was to not be _here_ , not to start what she was starting, not to endanger...

 _These are selfish thoughts,_ she told herself. _First things first, then second things follow._

'I am scared,' Veldrin whispered into Iron Bull's smelly arm pit; he stank to high heavens and back, and Maevaris had not kept her promise, thus the elf's robes caught whatever was left of the oil.

'If you were not, I'd be scared,' the Qunari gently said, before briskly casting her aside. 'We follow the west corridor,' he ordered. 'Dalish…'

'I am not a screaming mage!' the blonde elf furiously protested.

'Of course you are not,' the Bull agreed. 'But as the mages we leave behind are about to get a bit experimental on them ancient things, I'm leaving you here to keep your dalish bow trained on them. Everyone else who's not a mage and not Dalish, let's go find their channeling scheme things,' he ordered – Sera sighed and went west first, Skin on her trail; Bull carefully tread behind them, westwards, and towards books and diagrams he was unsure he wanted Veldrin to read.

* * *

'Promise me one thing, and one thing only,' Dorian said. Vel narrowed her eyes.

'No.' she preemptively said.

'If you feel close to the edge, come back,' Dorian followed. 'Promise me that.'

She was sitting on her knees, at the center of an intricately designed casting circle – Radonis' somnaborium rested in her left hand, while her staff stood a foot off the ground, floating eerily in mid-air; the staff's focus gem was the only light left in the chamber.

Veldrin looked up, and bit her lower lip.

'I won't be using blood this time,' she softly said. 'We are attempting to learn. There should not be any danger of posession.'

'Promise him, sweetness,' Maevaris gently, but firmly put in.

'Just don't lose yourself, wherever you may wander,' Dalish added – she stood outside the circle, and the gem on her bow was not yet in focus. 'You have to look out for me too,' the blonde elf followed. 'That is the entire purpose of trying this – if you go over that edge now, there truly is no hope.'

'Will it genuinely be that bad?' Veldrin asked, seeking Dorian's glance in the semi-obscurity. The man shook his head.

'I…we,' he said, tightly clasping his own weapon, the orb Sera had stolen, and looking over his shoulder to Maevaris, 'don't know. No one has used this device in thousands of years. It may do nothing. It may echo with the altar, and affect everything around it, on the Maker knows what scale; it may…'

Veldrin nodded, interrupting him before he said things she genuinely did not wish to hear.

'If _it_ comes and offers help,' Mae said, 'tell it to go fuck itself, alright, doll?'

'And in what way,' Dorian added, with a chuckle; Veldrin chuckled in return, and felt her shoulders relaxing. It was all, she told herself, a comfortable lie.

'It's a promise,' she said; Dorian nodded, and stepped back, taking a deep breath.

Veldrin's staff flickered out of focus – for a heartbeat, it was dark, and the usage of the artefact became anything but a gentle try run.

The orb in Dorian's hand erupted to screaming light; Dalish was swept aside and flung against the far wall of the chamber as if the magical energy had been the whipping wind of a tornado. Leaves and vines hastily conjured by Maevaris cushioned the blow at the very last moment, and though the blonde elven mage took a long moment to recover, she shakily stood. There was no hiding it now – the gem on her bow came alight too, but a faint shimmer of blue in an endless sea of painful white.

'Fuck,' Dalish whispered. 'Fuck. I can't move. I can't breathe.'

'Literally?' Mae asked, narrowing her eyes in concentration – there was no need for an answer, as the blonde elf's features remained frozen, her lips open; she was not gasping for air, for her chest was not moving at all. 'Try,' Maevaris whispered. 'Try.'

Dalish could not even blink in response.

'Maker,' Maevaris said, casting a hasty and pointless dispell; it allowed Dalish a single breath. 'Tone it down, Dorian,' the Magistra ordered, looking over her shoulder.

'Do you think…' he gasped, in response, 'I _fucking_ can? I'm not controlling this – it is simply channeling though me…Unless I completely close the channel, I cannot moderate or modulate. I am not in control of this, I am…'

 _No, he's not, not in control of it,_ the voice said, in Veldrin's thoughts. _It's alive and simply channeling though him. Like I shall channel through you. But, unlike him, you will like it. I promise._

A thin rim of red light cut though the white deluge; its power helped, yet rendered the lie less comfortable.

 _You won't control me._ Veldrin said, perhaps out loud; it did not matter. The contours of the circle around her began to glow, red rising with the flares of the orb in her own hand.

 _Why do we have this argument every single time I save your hiney? We could continue this scrap now, but I see your lathellan over there is drowning on dry land,_ the voice agreeably said. _Do you think we might want to do something about it?_

Something was off. Something was terribly, terribly off – _it_ normally did not come or manifest unbidden; the orb in Dorian's hand was thinning the veil all about them, weakening her and empowering _it._ The aura of the artefact was inescapable, its effects inevitable, and, once she began to use her own focus orb, the gateway to the Fade…

 _Well, you really are keen on wasting time. I could think of a few productive things to do,_ it said. _I mean, I was around before any of you, during a time when your new toys were actually…new. If you let me in, I'll show you how to make them work. Or stop working? Your choice._

Within her circle, which now was fully alight and projected onto the ceiling, Veldrin felt nothing of what Dalish was feeling. She could hear the humans' voices, yet process none of the emotion in their words – she _knew_ Maevaris was already desperate; she _knew_ Dorian was simply the channel to immense power; she _knew_ that Dalish was dying – yet all was away from her, on a different plane of existence.

 _Come on,_ the voice said. _You can't be having stage fright at the rehearsal. Do you want to do this, or not? I have all the time in the world, but you sadly don't._

She gritted her teeth; Radonis' somnaborium floated up and out of her hands, hesitantly hanging half way between the floor and the ceiling.

 _The circle protects me from the weapons of the early Shem mages,_ Veldrin thought. _I need to protect Dalish. How do I…_

 _Oh, you need only ask…_

It was once again dark, and she jolted as if she'd been lashed; de-energised, the orb fell to the floor, slipping between her fingers. Veldrin opened her eyes.

'Why did you stop channeling on the orb?' she asked Dorian; her voice sounded eerie, even to herself.

'I was killing Dalish,' he grunted.

'No one dies for not breathing for thirty seconds,' Veldrin acidly replied, before she could stop herself. The man scowled and looked at her…looked at her as if he'd seen her for the first time in his life.

'We were under focus for almost an hour, Veldrin,' Maevaris spoke, sounding exhausted.

'Thirty seconds,' Vel breathed. 'That all felt like thirty seconds, no more.'

'Look,' Mae said, pointing behind her – the elf turned, and covered her mouth with both hands, to keep herself from screaming. Dalish looked as if she had been beaten with a cane – she'd fallen to her hands and knees, gasping for breath. Her lips were grey, and every inch of exposed skin was covered in welts, which kept rising and falling, as if snakes had been crawling through her body.

'Mythal'enaste,' Veldrin whispered, darting to her feet, and all but tripping on the somnaborium.

'No,' Dalish grunted. 'Stay there. Don't come anywhere near me.'

'Dalish, I…' Veldrin stuttered.

The other elf looked up, and improbably smiled through the pain of it all; her vallaslin glowed dully with each breath she took.

'You were just about to find a way to protect me,' Dalish said, softly. 'I know. Let me recover and we'll try again; stay in your circle.'

'You're both insane,' Dorian said, dryly. 'I am not channeling again – Mae can't dispell this, and I am not in an elf killing disposition this morning.'

'Then, switch over,' Dalish said, painstakingly propping herself to her feet, and leaning heavily against the wall behind her. The humans exchanged a confused glance. 'Come on, Vints,' the blonde elf chuckled; her laughter came out as a choked half sound. 'Don't let a woodland apostate erm, hunter tell you how it's done – Dorian,' she said, straightening, 'you're too powerful, and you're channeling a storm Mae can't counter; you've clearly gotten the orb to function, now we need to see to the shield and the swords.'

'I'm not sure I like what you are about to suggest,' Maevaris said, dryly; somehow, Veldrin had expected that the woman would say she was exactly as powerful as Dorian was. She didn't.

'I don't want to touch that thing,' Mae said, instead. 'Maker's breath, I really do not.'

'We don't really have a choice, here,' Veldrin heard herself say.

 _Of course you do,_ the voice in her head replied. _There is always a choice – you can collect your toys and go home; they are too big for little children like you, after all…Unless, of course, you genuinely come out and play, as you would, with, you know…_

 _Fuck off,_ Vel grunted, in her thoughts; she knew it would not work even before the voice laughed.

 _You know it doesn't work that way – they don't, but you do. We made a deal; you made a choice._

'Switch and let's go again,' Dalish said; the healing potion Dorian had handed her was slowly working its magic. Colour had returned to her features, and the snakes under her skin had become still. 'Vel,' she said, tearing the other elf from her inner world and into immediate reality. 'Catch,' she said, throwing something at the dark-haired elf; Veldrin caught it, without even realising she had, or what the object was.

Dorian, however, immediately recognised it.

'No,' he said, swiftly moving to his wife's side, and trying to pry the object from her fingers. 'No – we are still learning here, there is no need to…'

'There is,' the blonde elf said, dryly. 'We're all at our limits here, and this but one of three weapons. We need to push.'

The blade of a daggerglinted as Veldrin moved it out of his grasp; sometimes, she thought, people made choices. At other times, the choices were made for them.

'The circle Veldrin is in is not designed for _that_ ,' the Magister stubbornly protested. 'It is focus and protection only, and we have taken it from Radonis' diagrams to the letter…'

'…and you know, for a fact, that Radonis never played with blood magic,' Mae whispered, looking to the side; the other human's shoulders slumped in defeat.

 _He's such a funny, funny human,_ the voice merrily said, in Veldrin's thoughts. _If only he was not so afraid of me, the fun we could have together…_ She found the strength to ignore it. She held on to the knife with her dead left hand, and awkwardly placed her right hand on Dorian's shoulder.

'I promised you,' Veldrin said; the words had no meaning to him, and he furiously shook his head. 'I promised you I will come back, and I will.'

 _That's it, da'len. Lie through your teeth._

'I love you,' the elf said, not lying, and the truth made the Magister yield; Dorian took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

'You'd be hard pressed to find someone more worthy of that notable sentiment,' he said, trying to smile. 'Just…do come back. We don't want to overwhelm poor Lexi with all of my affections now, do we?'

He turned around before she could see the pain in his eyes; she still knew she'd conjured it, because of the way he walked away, the weight of the world on his shoulders. He wordlessly passed the orb to Maevaris, and she braced as if the object had been too heavy to carry. Dalish lifted her bow, its gem coming alight; Veldrin kneeled in her circle, knife in her left hand, orb in her right.

'With feeling, this time,' Dalish ordered.

Then, the world was once again awash with white, painful light.

* * *

Well, whew, this one took a bit to get right (we hope we got it right!) and it provoked the mother of all creative differences between the Abstract/Ivi/Maidros/Betas/Supporters/Friends/Relatives/That dude we didn't know in the green sweater who really wanted to join the brawl. But, by Solas' pointy years, it is action :)

Many serious apologies for the delay, we have truly been labouring this for close to a month.

Thank you for reading and commenting!

Up Next - Plenty of hints in the present chapter ;)


	25. Freedom of Choice

_The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil_

 _And grew jealous of the life_

 _They could not feel, could not touch._

 _In blackest envy were the demons born._

 **Erudition 2:1**

* * *

'Bloody hell!' Sera screamed; reading his leader's mind, Krem barred her way, decisively placing himself between the nervous elf and the insane chamber that was going even madder around them.

The Bull nodded, almost only to himself.

There was no doubt that they had reached the room the mages had wanted them to find – floor to ceiling book cases lined the walls, threatening to collapse under the weight of hundreds of tomes. The room itself looked as if none had entered it for decades, which, the Qunari told himself, was probably a good indication that Veldrin and her fellow mages would find what they were looking for, once they reached it…because, the Bull thought, looking about himself, there was a snowball chance's in hell likelihood that he would be able to discern what they wanted.

At least getting Veldrin and Dorian to the library would not be a challenge; whatever force was milling in the upper layers of the fortress had had no interest in this room, or had simply feared to approach it, for their footsteps were the only traces of disturbance in the gathered dust. The challenge, the Bull told himself, would be returning to the mages they'd left behind, and not slapping them too hard for whatever they were doing.

Because they were definitely doing… _something_.

All around them, shards of translucent glass had suddenly lifted to the air, and begun spinning; those that lay beneath the desiccated corpse of what must once have been a human tore right through it, scattering bone and parchment-like skin.

'We should have taken one of the mages,' the Qunari dryly observed, consciously refusing to be phased. 'I see what's happening but I don't feel shit.'

'Plus we can't carry the whole of the library back with us,' Skin replied, in an equally dry tone. 'Fuck knows what books they want from here…'

'Yeh,' the Bull agreed.

The shards of glass spun faster and tighter, already re-forming the ague shape of a sphere under the pull of unseen forces, yet nothing else moved. The hurricane that was driving them was moving nothing else; the pages of open, scattered books remained motionless.

'Whatever they are doing, it's either going very well or horribly wrong,' the Qunari said. 'Sera,' he distractedly added, not looking away from the shards' dance, 'you remember the tremendously stupid thing Varric did that Mae warned us of?'

'Fuck you,' Sera spat, her arrow aimed and her bow tensed.

'Well,' the Bull said, 'you're about to do it, too. Don't know how you all feel about it, but I think shooting at the glowy ball of death and sending us into the fade is a really bad idea. Krem.' He said, and speaking the rest of the order was unnecessary. His lieutenant grabbed Sera from behind, pulling her arms back and making her drop her weapon – she fought, but it was all to no avail, as the Charger was taller, heavier and armoured.

'It's pulling itself back together!' Sera pointlessly screamed, kicking at Krem's shins. 'That thing is putting itself back fucking together…'

''s'all good,' the Qunari evenly said. 'It will be the only thing in this room we can carry back.'

 _Though whether doing so was a good idea, only the silence of the Qun knew._

Ignoring the orb that was now gathering definite shape above his head, Iron Bull kneeled by the side of the scattered corpse.

'Who was this poor fucker?' he wondered out loud.

'Someone who had a really long and bad dream,' Skinner responded. 'Read Varric's books instead of ogling the blonde she-male, next time,' she scolded, when the Qunari looked up at her and frowned.

 _A long and really bad dream,_ the Bull distractedly thought. _Very akin to the one we are about to have._

He stood and straightened, just in time to catch the re-formed crystal ball. It was large, some two feet in diameter, yet it weighed nothing at all – it was warm to the touch; Sera had stopped struggling and was weeping silently instead. Krem was no longer restraining her, but holding her in earnest warmth.

'I can feel it, right?' Sera whispered, amid sobs. 'Veldrin's doin' this an' not doin' it at the same time…'

'It could be Dorian doing it,' the Bull said; the orb in his hand, the thing that Maevaris had called a Maghrallen, the thing that Varric had shot…Skin's comments were a tad unfair, he had been paying some attention…in any event, the _thing_ really weighed nothing. 'Though,' he wisely reconsidered, 'I doubt Dorian got a taste for blood magic all of a sudden.'

'There shouldn't be blood magic,' Skinner said, sounding unpleasantly hesitant. 'They said they were only going to start that once…'

The Bull sniffed at the air, his nostrils flaring wide.

'I think there has been a change of plans,' he matter-of-factly replied. 'Let's get back to them,' he said, turning around. 'They need to get in this room, and,' he added, once more looking to the remains, 'we need to burn or bury this guy.'

'I thought Qunari had no respect for corpses,' Krem quipped; the Bull's fierce glance and clenched jaws made him regret the words as soon as they'd been uttered.

'This poor sucker was not a Qunari,' the Bull said, feeling ready to face whatever the mages left behind had conjured. Her could not have guessed how wrong he was, though, he could not have guessed that he, and not Sera, would be the one to flinch and draw back when, retracing their steps, they reached the mage chamber. He could not have guessed that he would be the one who was terrified.

The gaping mouth of the corridor was protected by the shield Sera had stolen; it radiated cold, just as the Maghrallen in his hand radiated deceitful warmth. Controlled by the red-flaring orb Veldrin was focusing with, the shield drifted in mid-air, breaking apart the river of white light that poured from Maevaris' tensed fingers; Dalish stood just behind it, breathing at ease.

'Don't come in,' Dalish pointlessly warned; he would not have approached in any event, for the balance of the chamber seemed to tether on the point of a needle. Whatever they were doing, the Qunari dully thought, was working. He could still not discern whether it was very good or horribly bad.

Veldrin's eyelids fluttered.

The coffer that held the last relics – the swords – exploded into fine wooden shards. Crossed as if they had been held by invisible hands, the blades drifted up, up, towards the ceiling then, down and to the side, then into a whirl, then…then came to a standstill behind the shield's protection, behind Dalish, and before Sera.

The rogue did not draw away, as he'd assumed she would – instead, she reached for the hilt of the right hand weapon with odd, grim determination. She gripped it, and closed her eyes.

'I accept your gift. I will kill him for what he did,' Sera said, in a low growl. 'I will kill him for what he did to you.'

She reached for the left handed sword, not opening her eyes; reunited, the swords shrank and adjusted to the elf's hands and size. Sera did not even shudder.

'You will kill him for what he did to us all,' Veldrin said; her lips had moved, but she'd not moved them. Her voice had risen, but it was not hers – the blood on the floor was hers, however, and it filled the contours of the circle, flowing freely from the open veins of her left arm and never straying from the pattern. Droplets of it were rising in the air, gathering in a blur around Radonis' orb, then returning to Veldrin in a fine mist. It looked like she'd been sweating blood, yet it was all going in, not out of every pore of her skin.

'Dorian,' the Iron Bull said, catching his former lover's glance, and finding it deprived of expression. 'Dorian, are you seeing what's happening here? How angry do you want to let her get, before…'

The Tevinter lowered his eyes.

'You're wrong,' Dorian said, softly. 'She's not angry…Hers is not a rage demon.'

Veldrin lifted her eyes from the floor, and they were blood red and dull, and they were not Vel's eyes.

'It's lust,' Dorian whispered. 'It was lust all along.'

'Oh, hell,' the thing that was not Veldrin said, extending her arm and yanking Aurelian Titus' reconstructed Maghrallen out of Bull's grip by willpower alone. 'I am a _fucking_ choice spirit! Choice spirit! How many times do I have to say it! And you,' it purred, 'may call me Imshael.'

* * *

'I call bullshit, that's what I call!' the Qunari exploded. 'Haven't we already killed this guy?'

'I _am_ in the room,' Imshael reminded, making Veldrin purse her lips; the magic was done, and the empowered artefacts rested neatly against the wall. The energy storm was over as well, and all lights had dulled. The only thing that had not changed…the only thing that had not changed was the fact that Imshael was, indeed, in the room.

The Iron Bull chose to ignore him, and kept his furious glance locked to Dorian's defeated stare. 'And you would have me believe you didn't know about this, Kadan?'

'He did not,' the demon shrugged. 'He's really very scared of me, you know…Remember when your Inquisitor took that walk through the fade and looked all your fears in the eye? Dorian's is temptation, so…'

'Shut up,' Dorian spat.

'Well,' Imshael merrily reiterated, 'Solas' fear was dying alone, which I guess is why he is planning to take so many people with him when he goes not so quietly into the night – see what I did there? Pun completely intended.'

'You're cracking yourself up,' Sera hissed. 'Give Vel back.'

'It's not a question of give or take per se, but, out of idle interest, what would you give to get her back? Not that you have anything that I want,' the demon shrugged. 'Dorian, on the other hand…'

'Haven't we killed you already?' the Magister angrily muttered.

The demon exhaled in annoyance. 'I've been killed so many times the novelty is really beginning to wear off. The little red-haired elf that's cavorting with the Empress of Orlais killed me; the Grand Duke of Blah-Blah killed me as well, Michel de Chevin thought he did too, and that's just counting the Orlesians you know. Don't get me started on the Fereldens. Or the Nevarrans, though the Divine might be a mentionable footnote.'

'I can't be fucking killed,' he hissed, causing Veldrin's throat to tense. 'So get over it – besides,' Imshael said, languorously leaning Veldrin back on her arms, 'I'm not exactly what you'd call an abomination. I _am_ pretty.'

'If you weren't in Vel's body, I'd be glad to lop off your head and kill you again,' the Bull grunted. 'So you have at least one Qunari on the list.'

'Meh,' the demon said, 'no, I wouldn't, because you're Tal Vashoth now, so technically, not a Qunari anymore. Was that your fear?' he chuckled. 'I can't be bothered to remember every single little thing. Only the relevant ones.'

'We should not be speaking to it,' Maevaris tiredly whispered. 'The longer it stays, the harder…'

'Oh, you are really new to this cross world-stuff, sweetness,' Imshael mocked. 'When Solas wins, and he will win, because, unlike you, he is ruthless, determined and powerful, you'll be the first against the wall. Just so you know…You can't chase me out of a vessel that willingly chose to invite me, so whatever exorcism ritual is floating though that blonde air head of yours will fall as flat as your hair is. I'll let Veldrin back in in a little while, don't worry – her scratching at the door is really annoying. I'm just lingering to let you know that from now on, I come and go as I please. And you should be grateful for it, too, as, let me tell you, without me, your casting does not amount to fuck all. Why…'

It, all of a sudden, sounded frightened, and turned Vel's glance on Dalish.

'Why are you not scared of me?' Imshael asked, in a small voice. 'Everyone else is, but you're not.'

'I am Elvhen. I'm not afraid of spirits,' Dalish shrugged; she took a few brave steps forward, breaking the invisible barrier that all others were holding around the thing that was and was not Veldrin, and sitting on the floor beside her.

'You should be afraid of me,' Imshael said.

'Why?' the blonde non-mage asked. 'Are you a special spirit?' the peacemaker politely inquired.

'You have no idea how _special_ I am,' the demon growled.

'The fact that you need to state it makes you exactly like every other middling spirit,' Dalish said, raising both eyebrows. 'Not very special.'

'Dalish,' Dorian whispered, 'is this in any way intelligent?'

'Yes, yes, listen to the Shem. See? He _knows_ how special I am,' Imshael agreed. 'It's not very smart to provoke me, when I can simply draw Veldrin's dagger and then further drag it across her throat, making sure the blood doesn't return to heal her, this time.'

'You can't,' Dalish said, making the point of her intervention clear, and reminding the demon of its limitations. 'She would not choose it. And you are compelled by her choices – she chose to let you in to learn from you.'

She gave the demon's vessel a complicit nudge.

'She chose to let you in to protect _me_. Isn't that ironic? If I were you, I would feel used.'

'Ow,' Imshael earnestly protested. 'You make me feel unwanted, and that smarts. You choose not to fear me, and that is just rude. Fine, I'll just go. Then, I'll come back. And then go again. See if I care – the only reason why you're not killing her is that you need her; don't think I didn't overhear that lovely fireside conversation you had. Only, it's not so easy now eh?…oooh, I have a bright idea! Let's make thus even more _fun!_ '

'I'm going to knock out the boss,' the Bull said, asking permission from Dorian in not as many words.

'Do it before he says whatever Vel doesn't want to know.' the Magister nodded.

The Iron Bull was not fast enough.

'Do you know who first called me from the fade? I was dwelling quite happily there,' Imshael spoke, spewing words as fast as Varric's Bianca shot bolts, 'before…'

The Bull's fist crunched against Veldrin's delicate face, as if her bones had been carved in iron.

'…that's not going to work now, is it?' the demon said, smiling Veldrin's smile. 'Solas called me – he didn't do it himself, of course, he has quite a taste for mindless tools, but…they were puppets, and he was the master, thus I this I shall give him the credit. He gave me a taste for unchanging flesh first. It was not one body but many, and I killed them all, killed them and scattered them under their stupid aravels, I reached up their arses and turned them inside out, but it wasn't their fault – it was Solas' and yes, his name is Solas, not Fen'Harel…'

The Bull punched Veldrin again, and again, and again, until she went down and stayed down, until his fists were naught but raw broken bones and shapeless flesh.

'I'm going now,' the demon said. 'I'm having an inward giggle at guessing which one of you will tell her just how much her precious Elvhen god despises her precious Elvhen kin. My safe bet would be you, Sera, just, you're too obvious, thus my earnings would be meagre. Dorian. We're back to you, you dark horse, you. You'll tell her, won't you? You'll tell her because you cannot resist temptation.'

The demon left Veldrin's body in a shapeless pile on the floor; the places where the Bull's fists had seemingly not touched her were growing yellow and blue. Dorian rushed to hold her, Dalish vanquished of his way by swift steps and not magic.

He lifted her to his chest, and thought of Lexi, and Felix, of magic and beauty, he thought of happiness, and peace and how far away they all seemed. He thought of the practical little sprite that was his wife; a practical little sprite that was now, one thing more. Perhaps one thing too many.

'I kept my promise,' she whispered, looking up at him through golden eyes. 'I came back.'

'You took your time, Amata,' he whispered, in return.

'I meant to give the swords to Sera,' she followed, holding on to his shoulders. 'I wanted to give them to her, because she hated Solas, and all he ever represented, unlike Skin, who aspires to be him, and simply wants to kill humans. Did I manage to do that?'

'You did,' Dorian softly said, painstakingly turning both of them to face the wall against which the artefacts stood. 'But you went over the edge to achieve that, Vel, very far…'

Her eyes turned red, and the demon spoke for his ears alone.

'Well, I told _you_ what her lover did. How tempted are you to hear about yours? Because Lexi has been anything else but a good little boy…Or well, he has been a really good little boy, unlike you. Are you tempted to know what _he_ did, Dorian, of the House Pavus, most recently of Seheron? Your choice.'

* * *

Aah, how nice to see old friends again, right? RIGHT? Methinks Veldrin is making friends with the wrong sort... On the other hand, looks like Solas is now facing quite the line-up.

Thank you for reading, and especially for commenting (we do like comments, we really, really do!).

Up Next - We shall see what we shall see :)


	26. A Council of Wise Men

_You have grieved as I have._

 _You, who made worlds out of nothing._

 _We are alike in sorrow, sculptor and clay,_

 _Comforting each other in our art._

 **Trials, 1-8**

* * *

They let her sleep, after that all – there was not much they could have done, nor, they discovered, was there much to say; in different ways, Sera, Bull and Dorian found themselves haunted by the words they had so lightly spoken just a few nights before.

 _How many abominations have we slain?_ Dorian had said, then, with more confidence than he should have demonstrated. It was simply that he'd decisively put the possibility of Veldrin actually losing herself to her demon meld out of his mind. This woman, he thought, distractedly caressing the sleeping elf's hair, had survived the fade Mark unchanged; she'd survived Solas' betrayal unchanged, she had…Not even the blood magic had outright changed the basic nature of her being.

Until now.

He unconsciously adjusted her makeshift pillow, willing himself to neither notice the bruises on her face, nor the Bull's bandaged fists. He felt void.

'You can still go,' Dorian said, blankly; the Qunari warrior grunted.

'Are you?' the Bull asked.

'I…no,' the Magister replied, softly. 'I don't know. I feel…'

He looked down at Veldrin. 'Deceived,' he ended. He took a sip of his rum. 'Awed. Unsure.'

'Do you still think she knows what she's doing?' the Bull asked. 'This feel completely out of whack for me, Kadan.'

'Well,' Sera muttered, 'I'm freaking beyond shock right now; thing is, tho', an' I hate to even hear myself sayin' it…But she does look like she knows what she's doin'.'

'If she did, she would have given the swords to Skin, and not you, Sera,' the Bull matter of factly observed. 'You are not _that_ kind of rogue.'

'It's fucking symbolic,' the blonde elf said, shaking her head, and drinking her glass in one gulp, scowling horribly at Dorian's arched eyebrow and Bull's incredulous smirk. 'Them things don't need a wielder – I held 'em for a second, trust me, they'll be flying at Solas on their own.'

Dorian sighed and nodded. 'That is the frightening part, Sera. I'd always known Veldrin had pactised with lust demon,' he shrugged, 'but Imshael…'

He ran his fingers through his hair, not minding that he was breaking his carefully side parted, briantine held hairdo. 'Lust demons are the most insidious of the lot, because, contrary to what the name denotes, they can arise from any too long denied desire. My own ascension test…what you, in the south, call a harrowing, involved a lust demon, too.'

'If you'd been a Qunari…' the Bull said, beginning to catch on; Dorian decisively nodded.

'Or, well, held the Qun's view of sexuality,' the Tevinter replied, adding a slight correction, 'it would not have been lust; as was, I was a teenager, unsure of myself, torn between the intuition that the inklings of my _deviancy_ that I was already guessing, the love I bore my father and my own ambition. If I had not been ashamed of my sexuality _then_ , my test might have been pride. Or rage. I was ashamed, ambitious and conflicted, thus…'

'Whatever came to you, offered a path to resolve all,' the Bull nodded. The Magister simply shrugged.

'Pride demons may be the physically strongest, but desire demons are versatile, and well, Veldrin has a lot of _desires_ , in many respects. Still…Mages fight possession; it is almost unheard of that one would actually invite the demon to stay.'

'Unless, of course, Veldrin has already decided she won't survive this,' the Qunari replied, with a smirk. 'I'm gonna have words with Dalish,' he futilely promised. 'There's a time to push, and a time to hold, and this was the mother and grandmother of all times to hold.'

Dorian sighed. 'Pragmatically,' he brought himself to say, 'no, it was not. I am terrified by Vel's choices, here, but if I distance myself from the fact that I do care for her, very, very much, and accept that she really has no intention of surviving this – which is why she fought my presence, all of our presences tooth and nail – Imshael is a disturbingly intelligent choice.'

'My arse,' Sera mumbled, refilling her keg.

'Check the chief's fists, Sera,' Dalish tiredly put in, approaching the three to join them by the dying embers of the small fire. 'She should be dead after that pummelling; instead, the chief broke both his hands – 'twas like watching him hit a granite wall.'

'Pride demon skin,' the Bull said, in barely subdued annoyance. 'She wouldn't even have gone down if he hadn't left.'

'How is she?' Dalish asked, cranking her neck to take a glimpse of Veldrin.

'Just peachy,' Dorian reproachfully muttered. 'She looks like a basket of dewy spring flowers, she will wake up light headed and rested as a babe, and she most definitely doesn't have cackling voices in her head; we can also rest assured than when she does wake up, she's going to start telling us all about the best parts of our natures, and help us form tight, lasting and warm bonds with those we love most…I don't get you,' he blurted. 'Isn't blood magic frowned upon in the wilds? You are so at ease with it as if you were of Tevinter, Maker forgive me.'

Dalish apologetically smiled. 'Varies from clan to clan. Don't forget that the creation of the _vallaslin_ is blood magic, by the very same rules which are tolerated in Tevinter…'

'Blood of willing participant, for fuck's sake, yes,' Dorian snarled. 'I'm starting to think Solas was more correct than even he knew he was – we do inherit all of this crap from Elvhenan.'

'Inherited is one word to use, perhaps,' Dalish said, with a little unreadable smile.

'We're all drifting on the very thin fringes of madness, here,' the Qunari dryly said. 'And I am very unhappy with you, Dalish.'

'I understand,' she nodded, 'and I would apologise, but…'

'Ya not particularly sorry,' Sera snarled.

'I did not know _what_ it was in advance. You keep forgetting who we are we are about to face, I think,' the blonde mage thoughtfully said. 'You also forget what difference in our various casting powers the Forbidden One's presence caused.'

'Forbidden One,' Dorian said, rolling his eyes. 'Maferath's tiny balls, I find I really do prefer calling it Imshael. It's just a tad less ominous.'

'Not gettin' this,' Sera said, softly shaking her head. 'We _did_ kill the fucker, why is he still…?'

Dorian assessed her though the corner of his eyes, and noted that she was, indeed, not as frightened or squirrelly as he'd expected her to be; he felt a small sting of shame, and a gentle touch of comfort – it seemed like his calculated risk had been worth it, after all.

'Imshael,' Dalish replied, instead of Dorian, 'is one of the spirits _educated_ mages call the Undying. According to Chantry legend, he is one of the Maker's first creations, and one of the first to envy the dwellers of the unchanging world; according to our legends, he truly is a spirit of choice, his existence predating even Elvhenan. His vessels have been slain countless times through the ages, but he can always return to the beyond and wait for another to call him; his continued existence is akin to the immortality of the elvhen of old in _uremthra1_ , only the unchanging vessel he returns to is not his own, as he never had one.'

'Any good news in that charming expose?' Dorian frowned.

'He is wicked but fair,' Dalish responded, 'and he is truly compelled by the choices of those who deal with him in a manner or another. He cannot harm Veldrin, and he cannot harm us, unless we actively make choices which may lead to harm. He won't tell us which ones they are, of course.'

'It is also,' she added, after a deep breath, 'that at the last Arlathvhen2 I attended, there were rumours…well,' Dalish uneasily followed, 'accounts, of a host having been possessed and survived the Forbidden One's departure.'

Dorian frowned. 'Was Vel there?'

'Uhm, no; I think she'd already gone. But the Keeper of clan Lavellan was, thus…Thus, perhaps we should not lose hope,' she gently ended.

'Forget if Vel was there or not,' Sera muttered. 'I'd care more if the chick or dude who survived the visit was there. So, ya know…'

Dalish helplessly shrugged.

'Effing great, Dalish.' the Bull muttered. 'Even if Vel knew about this, going on dalish rumours…' he angrily shook his head. 'I don't know why I am getting the feeling that every time we think we are saving the world, we just end up making a larger pile of bullshit out of it.'

'Yeh,' Sera picked up. 'We killed Corypenny, we got Solas; if we beat Solas, we're gonna wake up his mother, I betcha. Does this cycle never end? Like!'

'Does he lie?' Dorian asked, his thoughts wound tight as a horsehair bow string; he looked down to Vel, and pointlessly arranged her pillow once more. He didn't want to hear the answer to that one, he thought. He really, _really_ did not.

Dalish looked away in her turn.

'You mean, what he said about Solas?' she inquired back, clearly hiding from the answer.

'Yes,' the Magister said.

 _Among other things,_ his thoughts silently completed; Dalish, whose chaotic miseducation of the subject of ancient spirits was far better than Dorian's disciplined learning on the same subject, did not hurry to answer.

'The girl who was apparently the surviving host of the Forbidden One was of clan Thelhen. They…'

She bit her lower lip.

' _Something_ massacred them horribly, leaving none but children aged of no more than eight summers alive, in exactly the way that the Forbidden one described; this was at the dawn of the Orlesian Civil war, though, so we assumed it had been the Shem'len…'

'Dalish,' the Bull said, frowning, 'if it had been humans, why would they have let the children live? And how do you simply _assume?_ '

'Ask the last of clan Lavellan why we always assume it is humans,' Dalish said, dryly. 'The Arlathvhen was called, though it was a time of grave danger, so that the children would be divided amongst us – they were…shaken, and none had the desire to linger until they spoke. The Orlesians were gathering all around us – we decided that we would know more at the next clansmeet and parted hastily. Alas, I…'

She shook her head. 'If there should ever be another Arlathvhen, I fear the _tale_ I shall bring will not be pleasing, for I…'

'You believed Imshael,' Dorian said, narrowing his eyes.

'Think on it, Dorian,' Dalish said, softly. 'The chief is right – if it had been humans to massacre them, they would not have left the children behind. They never do,' she whispered. 'If it was the Forbidden One, however, it makes cruel, but perfect sense – however clan Thelhen offended him, they made a choice to do so, so he spared…'

'…those who could make no choice,' the Bull said, letting out a heavy breath. 'Shit.'

'The other thing that makes sense,' the blonde elven _non_ -mage followed, 'the other connection…is that clan Thelhen was very reclusive and known to delve deeply into lost knowledge and artefacts. Shortly after, Marquise Briala, who is known to have accompanied Empress Celene in her brief flight though the Dales, when her cousin's armies were upon her, acquired access to the eluvian network.'

'Watcha sayin'?' Sera frowned.

'Eh,' Dorian groaned, hiding his face in his hands. 'I think know where this is going, Dalish.'

The elf briefly nodded.

'Clan Thelhen discovered an eluvian,' the Magister said, 'but they could not empower it. Then someone, with knowledge of _how_ , but not enough power, taught them how to summon and bind something who had both the knowledge and the power to unlock the mirrors.'

'The Dread Wolf,' Dalish said, her words no louder than a breath.

'Eh, but that would mean that Solas,' the the Bull began, shaking his head, 'it would mean he tricked both the demon and the dalish clan, and that he _knew_ what would happen once Imshael did get out of the box. It would mean he purposefully allowed them to die, so that…'

'The eluvian network is priceless,' Dorian softly said.

'This does not sound like _our_ Solas,' the Qunari refuted.

'No,' the Magister replied, a drowning man clinging to a straw, then abandoning even that. 'But we did not know him at all, and frankly, it makes Vel's pact with Imshael, whatever its terms are, an even clearer pragmatic choice. If all knew how to build an eluvian they would be popping up like mushrooms after the rainfall; Veldrin must have chosen him because…'

The options were too grim to consider, and he refused to follow his thoughts to their logical conclusion, or at least refused to speak the conclusion out loud – Verldrin had accepted Imshael because he was the only entity who could have taught her how to create the travelling mirror, and Imshael had answered her call because there was only one guilty part in his humiliating imprisonment that he had not yet been able to punish.

 _Solas._

'This is all speculation,' he briskly said. 'We cannot know if this, or, indeed any tiny part of this is true. We're basing all this on the truthfulness of dalish tales and a demon's words. Demons lie, Dalish.' He said; it was almost a plea.

'This one is not known to lie very often, Dorian,' the blonde mage said, gently; Dalish looked to Veldrin, with deep sorrow in her eyes. Dorian simply looked inside himself, and withheld a shudder; the world was all of a sudden resting all his weight on his shoulders – he assumed it was his own heavy heart, his own fear, causing the sensation.

He was wrong, though he did not know why; all that would follow wound not be his fault, either.

* * *

1 Elvhen reverie – essentially the spirit leaves the body and goes in to the Fade, where it can (could) stay for very long periods of time. Given the inherent connection to the weave elves had before Solas broke everything, they somehow managed to feed off Fade energies and keep their physical bodies alive for millennia, then wake up fresh as daisies.

2 Clansmeet.

* * *

Hey there, readers commentators, all, we thank you for reading, l wish you would comment more.

Thanks for watching.


	27. Tell the world I am coming

_And as the black clouds came upon them,_

 _They looked on what pride had wrought,_

 _And despaired._

 _-Threnodies 7:10_

* * *

Far south of Seheron, in Orlais, Vivienne de Fer woke up with the unpleasant sensation that she had either overslept, or that her new set of chambermaids was distinctly less competent than the previous one, whom she had fired on such blatant displays of stupidity as serving her tea too hot or too cold, not ironing her robes or ironing them so much that they looked like iron armour, polishing her staff too little or too much, sleeping with her Circle wards, writing to the unsanctioned Circles...and, indeed, sneaking into her room to pull the drapes open long before Madame de Fer finished her beauty sleep.

At a certain age, of course, oversleeping was as dangerous as under sleeping: the former made one's face bloat, the other just caused entirely avoidable wrinkles. She opened one eye, noticed that the drapes were still shut, sighed, then turned on the other side.

For a moment, she was tempted to excuse the maid battalion on the grounds of the fact that she'd had a particularly agitated night, with bad dreams she could not remember, but the echo of which clung unpleasantly to her semi awoken state; she promised herself that on the next eve, she would indulge in a little sleeping draught, closed her eyes and attempted to go back to sleep.

She could not. It was, somehow, too light…Or, to put it more precisely, the light was _wrong._

Vivienne sat up, and looked at her clock – for an instant, she did not believe what its face was showing, and was once more ready to blame the maids for not winding it. Still, in the silence of the bedchamber, she could hear the tiny mechanism clicking away, one of its delicate, gilded limbs pointing to the fact that it was just a few moments past sunrise.

She jumped out of bed.

It was impossible.

Despite the heavy drapes, the room _felt_ flooded with light. The colours of the velvet chairs, the glint of her silver nailbrushes, the gilded wood of her bedframe – all were crisp and clear, too crisp, as if all colours and contours had sharpened overnight. It was almost too much detail to absorb, and Vivienne's eyes already felt tired; the air itself felt oddly fragrant. She fancied she could smell the pines and the petunias in the great garden outside her window, as well as the heating oil in the kitchens three floors below.

Her mind drifted from the increasingly clear, ominous reality to more familiar haunts.

'I hope that they won't be frying onions, at least,' she muttered to herself; Vivienne reached for the chord of the bell that summoned her servants, and the gesture she had made thousands of times before required unnatural concentration, and even some physical effort. Vivienne felt as if she'd been moving through water, and even worse, she recognised the sensation.

She felt exactly as she had when she'd travelled through the eluvians.

'Maker,' she whispered, before she could catch herself – it was _always_ improper to have such outbursts, even when one was alone, and, for that matter, it was improper to lose one's cool so very fast; her heart was beating too quickly, she felt her breath shallow. Worst of all, she felt she was starting to sweat.

Keeping her shoulders straighter than they needed to be, and forcing one deep breath after another, the Grand Enchanter walked to the window, and pulled the drapes aside; because she truly felt as if everything was more difficult than it should have been, she used too much force, and pulled the heavily embroidered fabric off one of the golden rings that sustained it. For once, Vivienne did not care – she opened the windows with considerably greater care, yet pulled away from the sight before her in great, shamefully uncontrolled haste, more fitting to discovering that a high dragon had decided to nest on her perfectly manicured _pelouse._

No such thing had happened. The gardens were beautiful and vibrant, even more beautiful and vibrant than usual. For a moment, Vivienne felt as if she had been glancing upon a painting whose detail bordered on kitsch; she fancied that even from the highest level of her tower, she could see the delicate veining of the begonias' petals, and the tiny ridges at the ends of each blade of grass. The smell, too, was overwhelming, so sweet it verged on sickly. The sound of the door opening and closing behind her assaulted her hearing, and she turned about, biting her lower lip and frowning furiously at her own lack of control.

The elven maid, one of the very few remaining ones, took the expression on Madame de Fer's features for scorn, and inched back; Vivienne knew what the woman must have been thinking: it was not even her time of the day for service, and everyone knew madame was particularly _attentive_ in the early hours. Why, it was not unheard of that she would check if nails were clean and aprons and bonnets pressed and starched – the elf must have been cursing her luck.

Vivienne's expression softened.

'You are alright,' she kindly said, though the maid clearly was not – she looked as if she'd dressed in a rush, and few strands of faded, blonde hair were escaping the bonnet at the back. Relieved, the elven woman breathed at ease, and curtsied gracefully.

' _Bien dormi, Madame1_?' she asked.

' _Pas du tout, ma petite2_ ,' Vivienne dreamily said, watching the ease and grace with which the elf moved. 'If I am not mistaken, you are my turn down maid?'

'Yes, Madame,' the elf confirmed, with a little bow. 'I shall therefore ask your forgiveness if I am unfamiliar with your morning routine – shall I start on the bed, or help Madame get dressed, first?'

'Hard to do the latter, darling,' Vivienne said, smiling. 'You have not fetched my robes.'

'Oh, how unforgiveable…' the elf apologetically rushed to say. 'I shall haste to bring them presently…'

'It is quite alright, dear.' The Grand Enchanter said. 'You may start on the bed first.'

The elf did, while Vivienne watched; there was a certain initial nervousness to her movements under the attentive eye of her employer, but she was otherwise light, fast and precise. Within a moment, even the nervousness vanished, and the woman lost herself to her work, all but forgetting Vivienne and humming a little tune under her breath.

'Just for curiosity, _ma petite_ , what happened to my regular morning help?' Vivienne queried.

The elf stopped straightening the sheets and turned to face the Grand Enchanter. She was blushing a little, and clearly did not know what to answer; Madame might have been in an odd, forgiving mood this morning, but there was no guarantee a careless reply would not land her fellow maids in hot water by lunch time. Still, an answer would have to be produced.

'They…' the elf began, fidgeting, despite the fact that Vivienne was still smiling, 'they have not slept very well either, Madame.'

The Grand Enchanter felt she was literally becoming Madame de Fer, for all her innards were turning to cold iron. She bit her lower lip – another great impropriety, especially in front of the help, and sighed, forcing herself to turn towards the window.

'Leave the bed, darling, and be so kind as to fetch my secretary.'

'But Madame is not dressed to receive! And the room…' the maid protested – it was obvious that the strangeness of Vivienne's mood was beginning to try her.

Vivienne sighed, and swallowed a cutting remark. 'I am thankful for your attention, darling,' she said instead. 'I shall be even more grateful for your _celerity._ Wake my secretary if she is not up yet, though I am assured she has not slept well either. Impress upon her to fetch parchment and quills, and that the rules of dress etiquette are temporarily suspended.'

'Shall I, at least, summon mademoiselle Clarienne to Madame's study?' the elf queried; it was now not only a question of Vivienne's state of dress or of mind; by the tone of the maid's voice, which verged on impertinence, it was becoming a question of professional pride, and Vivienne had to concede that the elven woman was right. The room _was_ in a state.

The world _was_ in a state, Vivienne told herself, but it was no reason to suspend _all_ rules.

' _Tres bien_ ,' she sighed. 'Tell Clarienne to meet me in my study.'

The maid bowed, and left, walking rather too stiffly – with pride of having _corrected_ Madame, Vivienne was assured; oh, what gossip would arise in the kitchens, if only…

…if only the human maids had _slept well._

The Grand Enchanter slipped a delicate dressing gown over her night dress, and allowed herself a moment's pause. She sat before her mirror, and glanced at her reflection, not liking what she was seeing in the cruel, new light. The lines in the corner of her eyes had been there the day before, and the day before that, yet now she saw them – she also saw a trembling halo around her figure, faint but glittering with rainbow reflexes, like the contour of a child's soap bubble. Vivienne was assured that this, too, had been there the day before, and the day before that; what she was unsure of was of the way in which the outline bent and dented. As if invisible hands were touching it, measuring it, tugging it.

 _Trying to breach it._

She stepped away from the mirror, as hastily as she'd distanced herself from the wide open window.

'I am Madame de Fer,' she reminded herself, out loud; with her enhanced sense of hearing, the pronouncement should have sounded like thunder, but it was small and creaky, because she knew…

She knew that whatever start she had given the blissfully unaware elven maid, she would have to have a small discussion with Clarienne over addressing the first letter she intended to dictate to _Enchanter_ Fiona.

 _But, Madame!_ She knew the girl would say. _That is au par with recognising the unsanctioned Circles! Your authority, our position…_

Vivienne would wave her protests away, and the girl would write what she was told to write, in the end; she'd probably hold her tongue and know better than to protest when the second letter would be addressed to Marquise Briala, which relegated her Imperial Majesty, Empress Celene, the last on the list.

Perhaps, Vivienne thought, making her way through the small, windowless corridor that linked her bedchamber to her study, and finding that it too was flooded by light and painful detail, she would explain to Clarienne that she was, for the first time in eight years addressing Fiona as Enchanter not because she recognised her as a rival, or worse, an equal, but because Fiona was an _elf_. The relevance of this would evade Clarienne, of course, and she'd make that unpleasant little face she always made when she did not understand something – the thought of how much more unpleasant her little face would be in this new, stingingly revealing light, made Vivienne cringe, and almost think that on this occasion, she might have liked to write her own letters.

Yet, it was not an hour after sunrise, and she felt as if she'd walked twenty miles while carrying all the lumber in Emprise du Lion – in her heart of hearts, she already knew she would be physically unable to write three letters.

She crashed, rather than sat behind her desk, and rubbed her eyes. The gold of her quill holder glowed as a spear made of sun; the white of her parchments was resplendent as freshly laid snow.

Vivienne hesitated, then, true to her name, steeled herself, and reached for her quill, deciding that Clarienne would have one less letter to write – the shortest one of all, of course, but still one less.

 _Montsimard, on this 8_ _th_ _day of Drakonis,_

 _From Vivienne, Madame de Fer, by sanction of Her Imperial Majesty Empress Celene Valmont the First, and of the Holy Chantries of Orlais and Ferelden, Grand Enchanter of the Circles of Magi,_

 _To Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Celene Valmont the First._

 _Votre Majesté_ _, celui qu-on connait comme Solas...il est lá3._

She, too, was wrong, but only by half.

* * *

1 Have you slept well? (French in original, ofc). It's a nuance, but it is far more convivial and light hearted morning greeting than outright 'Good morning'. Denotes good will, a bit of familiarity and even a hint of affection.

2 Not at all, little one.

3 He's here.

* * *

Oh my, could this be us, back again? This time, the long hiatus was due to us not being able to keep up posting pace. We have been working all summer, however, and we have quite a few things to show you :)

So, hum, this is how world begins to end. Not with a whimper, but with another bang :)

(Solas says he is feeling rather ashamed of how proud he feels.)


	28. What you wish for

Hello, hello - another unusual one, in terms of opening warnings. This text is tough. It contains very vivid sexual imagery, bloodshed, demon possession. Please proceed with caution.

* * *

 _Blessed are they who stand before_

 _The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

 _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

 _ **Benedictions 4:10**_

* * *

The summer doldrums hung thick and heavy over the village of Rock's Fall when the farmers tiredly hitched their oxen to the nearest post and hurried to find what little noon-day shade was available. Spring's promise of gentle showers was long broken, the cracked earth beneath plowshares' feet like the scaled growth upon a leper.

What few, shriveled wheat stalks had survived the early storms and ensuing drought were to be hurriedly snatched and counted as quickly as any stray silver, while old hands clenched worriedly and muttered of bad times to come.

Far from sight of the swirling chafe and within yelling distance of the muttering knot of the village men, twelve year old Samuel Cottington laid himself gingerly down in the wilted remnants of riverweeds, hoping that the pounding in his head would go away.

It was hardly his fault that he was too light to press the plough deep enough into the scorched soil, but his pa acted like it was his fault anyway; wasn't like clapping Samuel about the head would bring the rains back neither, but his pa did that anyway, too – was like all of them had it in for him for some reason, and he couldn't make that reason go away.

Miserable and unthinking, he swatted at bottle flies that buzzed around his head and pressed his cheek closer in to the cool earth, half way listening to occasional shouts of the menfolk.

This was an old tactic of his; he guessed when he wasn't needed, so he could spend hours hiding within the confines of the tall grass and willows of the rocky, muddy stream that snaked through Rock's Fall's steep valley. Usually, Samuel carried with him his faded, half torn copy of The Chant and its Dissonant Verses, but the book was gone; he was now content to simply lay there and press the side of his face to the still cool, softened clay of the riverbed with half a ear out for any particularly threatening rumblings. Not that it mattered, today – his pa had torn his already tattered copy of the book fully, then taken great pleasure in laying the pages in the fire, one by one – reading books didn't feed womenfolk and oxen and goats, his pa had said, making it pretty clear that there was not much difference between the three sorts of pointless animals, 'specially during a draught.

It must have been the draught going to people's heads; his ma would normally have stopped his pa from burning the only book in the house, because she'd bought it for Samuel herself, in secret, and it had cost a pretty penny. She'd normally have stopped his pa before he beat the kid bloody, and taken a few herself, but this morning she hadn't. She'd just stood there, not even looking at her man or her child, just staring out into nothing.

Samuel not sure how long he had lain there, staring through the forest of rotting and snapped cat o'ninetails. He thought that he heard his pa yelling for him, threatening him with yet another and more terrible beating, but, since he could not even imagine a more terrible beating, Samuel merely licked his split lips and found he could not summon the will to move anymore, not even if his dream came true and Andraste herself appeared now before him to lead him away from the valley with Glandivalis, her own mother's blade.

Samuel fancied he did deserve that – truth be truth, he fancied his life was as miserable as that of an elven slave. He didn't know even if Shartan had had as many beatings as he'd had; Samuel thought no one could possibly have had as many beatings as he had, 'cuz he did take notice of the fact menfolk beat their women and children, but never beat their horses and oxen quite the same, an' from what he'd read, elves were sort of like horses and oxen: no good if they were lame and couldn't work.

So, to his mind, he deserved Glandivalis a lot more than Shartan had. Yeah.

Another fly joined the first now, and began lapping at the crusted blood collected at the back of his right ear. The oven hot air continued to beat off his skin and as more flies noticed his lack of distress and joined their brethren in picking at the scabs around his ears and scalp. One particularly fat, bold one landed on his nose and seemed to stare at Samuel with alien eyes the color of beetle's wings and lamp oil on water. Samuel stared back, as a dark cloud passed over the sun the oiled colored eyes stared back. It reminded him a little of his grandmother who shared his room.

Samuel wasn't sure how long he stared at the fly who made him think of his grandmother, but he thought with a sudden start that he should have noticed when the growing darkness of early evening replaced the shade of the cloud. Stumbling upwards as stealthily as he could with his side both painfully asleep and no longer comfortably numb to its old bruising, Samuel moved backwards away along the river bed to loop back around to his house. Experience told him that, whatever his feelings, the sooner he arrived the better it would be; maybe his pa would be in the happy drunk state, and not the angry drunk state.

Samuel had just turned the corner along the main path to his house when, he stopped, arrested where he stood by the overpowering vision of the entire village dancing around a massive bonfire.

He recognized all them, but only vaguely, their features distorted by the heat so that they appeared bestial and braying in the fading sunlight. The shrieks of the villagers reached a new height when the flames transmuted themselves into a hellish woman, half goat, half human, with glittering black eyes, and twisted horns, and breasts bared. Most of the women in the village, even his ma and the blonde girl from next door he was gonna marry, because, up until this moment, he'd thought one did have to marry a girl to see their breasts, had their breasts bared.

Samuel stood paralyzed while the woman fiend crooked a clawed finger at him in open beckon; he felt the little thing between his legs, the thing that was sometimes not really little anymore, sometimes, grow bigger than it ever grown before; but at least he was not alone in this - his brothers and sisters attacked or mounted each other, like rams mounted sheep in spring. His pa put the blonde girl from next door, the one Samuel was gonna marry, down by slapping her with the back of his hand, then pulled his own _thing_ out of his breeches, and showed Samuel what it was meant for, right then and there – and that made him think he was not gonna marry the girl after all, because she seemed to like being slapped, and, when his pa climbed on top of her and pulled her skirts aside, to show parts Samuel _really_ had never seen before, she rose up and licked his cheek, covered in unshaven stubble and sweat as it was.

He alone had nothing to show for his thing getting really big now, but the half-woman, half goat still eyed him, and him alone, steadily. She put her finger in her mouth, then ran it between her breasts, then, lower and lower on her stomach, then plunged it between her legs, like there was an unplugged hole there, and she was telling Samuel to plug it – and then, the little boy awoke and screamed.

'I know what ya are!' he shouted; he didn't know whether she could hear him, over the grunts and sighs and other screams. 'I know, cuz I read books! You's a lust demon! Go away! Leave my ma alone!'

'I know what you are too, Samuel Cottington. A little powerless boy,' the goat-woman purred. Maybe she looked like a goat-woman-cat thing, but he still knew what she was, she couldn't lie to him. He read books.

'Leave my ma alone!' he screamed. 'Ma! Ma, come with me!'

But his Ma couldn't hear him on account of the man on top of her, so there had to be another way to make her hear him, and Samuel truly shook the daze off; he sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him back towards the refuge of the riverbed where, weeping and gasping, he grabbed a thick young willow and pulled, pulled, not caring that the tree's leaves whipped at his face and caused even more cuts.

The willow would work, he told himself, because that's how his pa got their stallion off the neighbor's mare – he whipped him, whipped him bloody, but it was skin deep and it was alright, because the stallion could still pull a cart after that. The young willow looked like a whip, and, when swung right, its thin branches left welts like a whip too – if only its roots would give, and give fast enough, but they wouldn't, they wouldn't…he was just a powerless little boy.

It was in the deepest depths of his despair that she found him, the Maker's Bride. Her appearance came as suddenly as the demon's, only it was made real by a warm, comforting hand on his back and the soft, golden glow of the Maker's light. She was more beautiful than they ever painted her or carved her in wood or stone – sometimes, Samuel had heard, they made her out of marble too; he didn't know what marble was 'except it cost more than a pretty penny, but the woman looked like even marble would be too little to show her as she was – tall and proud, and great of breast and hip, all covered in robes spun of untouched white.

She caressed his shoulders, then put her hands over his, in pulling the willow out; with her first pull, out it came, and Samuel laughed with tears of relief in his eyes, and she laughed too, warmed by his faith.

'Bearer of the Maker's Favor, never despair.' She said, sitting on the muddy ground. 'Your whole life was preparation for this moment – if you can bear the load, you will be His Champion.'

Andraste then passed her hand over the willow making it into a flaming sword. She measured it for a moment, for weight and slimness, he guessed, then held it in her holy hands, and put it on her holy hip for an instant, before taking it in her hands once more, and passing it over Samuel.

Transfixed, Samuel took the holy weapon, his innocent flesh unaffected by its most divine flames. This sword was better than Glandivalis, he thought; Glandivalis didn't have no flames.

'Thy first labour is to free thine family from the bonds of the demons that possess'th their mortal coils. In doing so, you will show mercy to those who have tormented you and courage in the confrontation, just as I once did.'

'I don't mean to give real hurt to any of 'em. Just mean to save my ma…' Samuel whispered. 'The lust demon makes folk do what they don't wanna do; they'll be fine once they wake up from the demon's dream. I 'no that.'

The woman smiled and nodded.

'Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written – you are the light in the shadow now, Samuel. Do what must be done, and may your light, the Maker's light, strike out all shadow.'

'Now, my Champion,' the Most Holy Bride whispered in deep tones of reverence, as the sword's flames engulfed Samuel's whole vision and devoured his fear, 'go, and fulfill the charge.'

Without another word, Samuel turned around strode back to the village of his birth, his form bright with latent magic newly awakened; he held no flaming sword, but a stick he had fashioned and sharpened out of a willow, in a waking dream.

His young, beaten face was enough to make all the villagers of Rock's Fall to open their doors; his sharpened stick was enough to pierce the heart of every man, woman, and child. In the dead of night, or perhaps he was fast and precise enough in his strikes, no house could warn another. Only when he had struck the mayor's two summers old daughter through the heart, extinguishing the last light of life in the village, did twelve year old Samuel Cottington rest.

He did not rest at home, though – his ma's blood, plastered on the walls and ceiling and, more importantly, over the oily fly eyes of his grandmother, the fact that his grandmother's body was not easily shifted off the bed he slept him, made him go down to the murky stream.

He laid back to the ground, his clothes chafing more than his skin, for the blood of the first he'd killed was drying fast. He laid down, his torn ears glued the muddy ground and sharpened stick in his hand, then closed his eyes, and thought at least there would be no beatings 'pon the 'morrow.

Beside him, the woman dressed in impeccable white stood watch, for a while, seeing the boy twitch in the mud. She smiled, and crossed her legs, her hair twisting to high, pointed horns and her white robes becoming glued to her skin, to reveal her hoofed legs and to her bare breasts.

She looked to the sky, beneath the remaining willows.

'See, Samuel,' she said, in genuine kindness. 'I gave you what you desired: you wished to be free of this village, now, you are. If anyone finds fault in that, well…Well. They won't be faulting me.'

* * *

Well, well, what else could happen in this literal pandemonium? It's not like we're going to wake up the Old Gods...

Thank you for reading :)


	29. Awakening

_Then in the center of heaven_  
 _He called forth_  
 _A city with towers of gold,_  
 _streets with music for cobblestones,_  
 _And banners which flew without wind._  
 _There, He dwelled, waiting_  
 _To see the wonders_  
 _His children would create_

 _ **Theonides**_

* * *

A blue light burned atop a long buried, but still attended altar. It was lit, in great secret, every dusk; doused, in equally great secrecy upon sunrise. Not even the acolytes knew of this, for the mystery of the true faith needed to be jealously guarded. The High Priest alone carried the burden of knowledge, and was sworn, upon pain of eternal torment in the afterlife to only reveal that it was him, and not his absent God who maintained the watch of night on his deathbed.

The High Priest was thus alone in the forgotten, ruined hall; he was an old man, so old that he'd forgotten the actual count of his winters and summers – he'd not yet forgotten this secret that was his alone to keep, though, and still had enough of a healthy mind in his desiccated, skeletal looking head to begin wondering the _why_ of it all, and not reveal that he was doing so.

Ah, if he had told the others, the old man lamented, nonetheless kneeling beneath the dead eyes of a dragon statue, if he had told them that all his long years of devotion had only made him realise faith was ritual alone! That, after a while, he could not remember how long, the ritual _became_ the religion! And what for? he wondered, raising his hands to the dragon, in pointless, narrow imploration – he had no fear of such thoughts in the presence of his God's statue. He tried to remember whether he'd ever had the fear of them, and thought he must have, once…who knew how many winters and summers before? He didn't.

 _Horae quidem cedunt, et di_ ǣ _s, et menses, et anni1…_

His body moved on its own, the ritual of supplication guiding it, while his mind was not in prayer; why would it have been? The eyes of the Watchman of Night only sparkled to life because _he_ lit them. They only dulled because he extinguished them. That was all; that was faith – secret and ritual and _nothing_.

His lips moved on their own, too, speaking un-thought of words, un-felt thanks for the night spent in safety, for the sweet work of lovers, for the undisturbed rest of babes, for the hours of rest of the mind that turned sour thoughts gentle. Indeed, all that may or may not have come to pass during the dark hours of night, but the Watchman had long stopped watching. Safety was granted by men's swords; the making of love and its advent was in the nature of the bodies of men and women; a babe's rest depended far more on the dinner the woman who offered the breast, in abandon, than on any God; the wisdom of night was naught but men's wisdom.

Long gone were the days when he had prayed for the Watchman of Night to return and speak even a word, even a whisper. Now, when he spoke the words, he knew, oh, knew that all Gods' works were merely the work of men; no fear of Lusacan ran through his bones, for had men not killed Gods? An altar to seven dragons, of which only two were even attended. Men carrying a plague had killed five of them with their steel and their magic, and men did not need steel and magic to slay Gods, they simply needed time.

Once, centuries past, those who came to these hidden halls brought sacrifices and sincere prayers. The blood of the slave nation had once filled the circles carved beneath the dragon statues. Once, the rare trees of defeated Arlathan had lit the fires. He'd not been alive during that time – the only blood he'd seen offered was that of a chicken or goat. Maybe, one time, a horse? As for wood, well, even the acolytes had regarded the one man who had once offered rosewood from his garden as slightly eccentric.

And so, and so, hours and days; and so, and so, months and years. Acolytes were fewer as sacrifices were poorer; the fewer the acolytes, the poorer the sacrifices, it all wound further and further down, and it was so that fear of the Gods was replaced by fear of men, and men only.

The High Priest of the Watchman lit the flame of the Watchman at dusk and extinguished it at dawn, not for the God, but for himself. If he spoke the thoughts he held, out loud, it would be steel to bring him to his deathbed – or magic, or poison – or…It did not much matter. If he spoke, one of them, or all of them would end him, and force him to cast the curse of the faithless ritual on another man.

The High Priest of the Watchman did not know whether he was a good man or a bad one, but he knew he was a coward, as the mere notion of passing his burden on frightened him more than death itself. This hour would pass too, he thought, when all the words were said and all the gestures were done.

The day would pass, if men could not read his mind, he thought, lifting himself on his worn knees and putting his hands about the blue flame. The month would pass, if his man's body would last it. He'd not pass the lie on sooner than he had to.

He closed his hands about the flame to stifle it; it did not go out, though. His fingers, gnarled by old age let in too much air, the priest thought, before he realised the flame was hot and actually burning his skin. He persisted though. The pain was in his imagination, he told himself; it was arthritis, it was…His mind knew what it was. The God he was kneeling before was dead, and he'd been dead long before his High Priest had killed him by forgetting to fear him.

Before his eyes, however, the thin skin on his hands reddened and blistered. The pain was unlike anything else he'd ever felt, thus, he actually looked upon his fingers only to find the blue flame had fully engulfed them, licking as far as his elbows, crawling up his flesh, but not his robes – he screamed, then, screamed again, and howled, he tried to stand away, but could not. His right leg gave in, his bones hollow as his faith had been – the man who'd forgotten his summers and winters, who now felt pain beyond pain was truly a coward. His howls summoned many, many who'd see the lie he carried but who were suddenly unimportant. He needed to get away from the flame, he needed to save his miserable existence, he needed to use his arms, and not his legs, he looked up, up to the statue of his God, looking for something materially to cling to, a stone claw, a chiselled talon, a wing thinned to perfection, something he could reach for to pull himself up.

The statue of the Watchman was watching, its eyes alive.

Acolytes flocked behind the burning man, their collective gasps all but drowning the High Priest's screams. The earth itself shuddered under their hurried steps, their stampede so heavy and mad to shake the forgotten temple, and shatter the paper thin, painfully laboured on wings of the dragon statue.

'Now…Now, you answer…' the old man gasped.

His screams, as his pain, abruptly stopped.

'Because now I am watching,' Lusacan replied; the gaze of the statue rolled over the hall, counting the acolytes and finding their numbers lacking.

'Manaveris Dracona!' tens of voices shouted, whispered and sighed; acolytes dropped to their knees. 'Manaveris Dracona!'

The High Priest was oblivious to the fact that the blue flame was murderously kissing his face, and causing his tendons to dry and snap, because there was no pain, only bliss, pure and unadulterated.

The earth shook with it.

The statue's eyes watched a man old enough to forget all his summers and winters burn to a husk, a lifetime of ritual suddenly overcome by the blind bliss of faith.

'Manaveris Dracona!' the voices of the acolytes cried, and the earth shook harder.

An old man was dead by flame in his untouched robes.

The Hundred Pillars crumbled, and, short of an hour later, Minrathous saw the wings of a sapphire dragon – first, stealing its midday sunlight by flying over the city, then beheld the dragon as it landed and rested upon the shoulders of the two juggernauts which held its gates, a living statue reclaiming its rightful place.

'Manaveris Dracona,' the city cried, some feeling avenged, some thinking of what they could pack fastest.

'Maker's breath,' Cassandra whispered, looking out the window of the Pavus mansion; Leliana simply crossed her hands behind her back.

The dragon, ten times the size of any dragon seen or heard of by scientists in the Imperium or Orlais nestled its spiked head under its wings and cuddled to comfortable sleep.

Radonis approached it, sweat on his brow from the many steps he'd gone up on, fear in his heart and Blade of Mercy in hand.

The sapphire dragon awoke displeased, looked at the Archon, yawned a yawn wide enough to swallow him whole, with the blade that had ended the torment of the Maker's Bride, and his entire ten-main suite. He then set his eyes on Magister Cassius, for no reason any onlooker could discern.

'Thou have made a grand mess of our gift, yes?' the dragon asked, of no one in particular.

Radonis did not know what to answer, so the dragon sniffed at him, then, slowly turned his tail to the Archon, his Magisters and their borrowed Imperium, and went back to sleep.

* * *

1 Hours pass, then days, and months and years. Cicero, Correspondence.

* * *

Hello, Lusacan, Watcher of Night :)

Thanks for reading.


	30. Out of Time

_I cannot see the path._

 _Perhaps there is only abyss._

 _Trembling, I step forward,_

 _In darkness enveloped._

 _ **Trials 1:14**_

* * *

'Solas.'

Solas held two fingers to his forehead – not knowing whether he welcomed or dreaded the interruption; whatever his sight could reach, he had already seen, and though the events had not been unexpected, the speed at which the unchanging world was unraveling had left him shocked and saddened.

Perhaps it was indeed the time to look away.

'I have seen it all, Abelas.' He tiredly said.

He had. From the Free Marches the disease of creeping truth had spread to Nevarra and Antiva, to Orlais and Rivain, to Ferelden. To the Dales….and, as the Fade reflected the world around it, it was no wonder that his thinning of the veil had left naught but chaos and death in its wake. Death and chaos was all the mortals of this tranquil world could muster, and the exceptions were so very few that they were not mentionable.

'Tevinter's dragons awake,' Abelas said.

Solas found it in himself to smile; Tevinter, he thought, he had not watched, or at least, not for this. 'The dragons of Tevinter are no dragons, Abelas.' He said.

'I know that; they are far more dangerous.' Abeles replied. 'And we…'

'…we had no hand in it, I assure you,' Solas sighed.

Another strike of terrible fortune, he told himself, probably the one he could least afford now; he had begun to thin the veil out of simple, cold calculation – though he'd not expected quite this scale of a cataclysm, he'd needed the human nations to look elsewhere.

He'd not removed it altogether yet, for he was not yet in any position to renew the prison of the Evanuris. Even with Mythal's strength, even though his own strength had grown immensely…

But Veldrin had opened the games with skill and alacrity by enlisting Morrigan's aid, something he had not expected; he knew that the witch had had little choice in the matter, if, as he'd found out, Leliana had taken her son. Their plan, _her_ plan was sound, and with the voices of the Well of Sorrows whispering long lost truths, all that he'd created here was in great danger of unravelling…The thought of the _other_ , much older prison had slipped his mind, because that one had been placed under two seals, and he only had the key to one of them. The other key…

'How many of them?' he queried, struggling to keep his thoughts from wondering. 'Four of the seven are dead in the Blights; the essence of one is our prisoner. This leaves…'

'Two,' Abelas responded. 'Two too many, Solas; whatever eyes we still have in Minrathous assure me only one has made his presence known, yet we cannot assume that now, that he is free, he will not wake the other.'

There was no outright reproach in the Sentinel's voice, yet Solas still keenly felt it; the pace at which he was proceeding was not to Abelas' liking and _this_ mistake – if indeed it was his mistake…

He decisively shook his head.

'The thinning of the veil might have made them setting themselves free easier, Abelas, but their millennia long sleep was not of my making. I would not have awoken them. I could not have.'

'I know that,' Abelas said, and this time, Solas felt the reproach lacing his voice. 'And if it was not _our_ doing, it could only have been the work of Tevinter. Your woman's work,' he added, shaking his head; Solas closed his eyes, and breathed out slowly.

Of course. Veldrin – the bone of contention that had lain on the table between them since the very beginning, from that fateful first encounter in the Temple of Mythal…Some of his actions in her regard had been understood as necessity; the focus orb had had to be retrieved in one way or another; even their last meeting could outwardly pass for useful, for indeed, Veldrin had dissolved the Inquisition, and made their work in Thaedas far easier.

Still, many voices had even then risen to whisper that her death, whether by letting the Mark complete its work, or by staging an assassination by the Qunari, might have accomplished the same goal; that Solas had let slip the one enemy who knew him best, and contented himself to let her slip further and further out of his reach by allowing her to ally herself with their ancestral enemies in Tevinter. Her hasty marriage to Dorian Pavus, her progress there…

Time and perceived lack of action had dulled the attention she was given, as the organization itself had focused on evading Briala, Leliana and the Chantry; then, their focus on her had truly receded, partly because she had kept herself hidden in plain sight, but also because there had been precious little to report on but her apparently flawless happiness in marriage and the miraculous recovery of her arm.

Solas himself had taken all those minor reports in his stride, even forcing himself to not think of the fact that such flawless marital bliss, in a society that above all, valued lineage, should not have remained childless, and that, perhaps…

He chased the thought now, for it was useless. Any hope he might have had that Veldrin had respected his last request and had simply sought to be live happily, for as long or as little as her world had left had been dashed – at first by what he'd learned of her plans, and then by the fact that his enduring…

Interest? He tried to think; the word was wrong, as was affection. The only word he could not avoid was _love…_ His love for her, the fear of what might happen to her in the wake of his attack on Tevinter had been used against him, and led him terribly astray. Veldrin's bait and switch had both been a private heartbreak, and a public humiliation, precisely at the time when he could afford neither; she had hidden herself from him in the Fade, now he had lost even mortal sight of her – and she was, undoubtedly, moving.

He'd not been called on it, not in the turmoil of preparation, but he'd known this hour would come, and that his position was weak.

'I was never bonded with Veldrin.' Solas rather pointlessly said.

'It is good that you were not. She is no Elvhen like you or I.'

Solas looked to Abelas, wondering whether he should have reminded him that it had been Veldrin who had found him and shown him mercy, as he had done before when the subject had been broached. Saying it now would be pointless, however – there was clearly no limit to the things Veldrin could, and would awake.

'I doubt she willingly…'

Abelas shook his head, refuting the words before they were fully spoken; inwardly Solas felt relieved.

Yes, _his_ Veldrin would not have willingly awoken Tevinter's dragons, but _his_ Veldrin was long gone – the woman who inhabited her skin was unknown to him, and had been so for a good half decade. The Sentinel was right; something must have dangerously shifted, and the awakening of the Old Gods could only have been caused by Veldrin, and perhaps _Magister_ Pavus' actions, for if the Magisterium itself had known how to interrupt their slumber, they might have done so centuries before.

Corypheus and his Venatori certainly would have.

'What terrible mistiming,' he whispered. 'I've thinned the veil, and she…'

Abelas did not even shift.

Solas breathed in and out, slowly and carefully. 'You want me to kill her, I take it.'

The Sentinel did not shrug or nod, but the expression in his golden eyes spoke more than enough, and Solas looked away.

'We all do,' Abelas coldly said. 'The humans, even the human in her bed, have no power without her; sooner or later, they will all fall to their natures, and the denizens of the darkness they unwittingly conjure. Even the strongest and purest among them, the ones who will survive the broken veil will waste away from prolonged exposure to the very air that feeds us… Your woman is different, Solas, she knows too much…She certainly plans to destroy us all, Dread Wolf. Defend your pack and your principles.' Abelas said. 'Kill her.'

Yes…What was one more kill, in the end? All he had seen, though his eluvian was enough killing, pointless killing all across the continent. Pointless killing, killing he had enticed and enabled. He was not a monster, or rather he did not think of himself as one – it was a delusion.

Judging by what he had done, not once but thrice, he was the greatest monster of them all.

Was there a choice? he wondered. He'd meant to restore _his world,_ yes, but he had not intended to torture this one to such an extent – even the minor thinning of the veil had set it ablaze, and yes, there was the option of allowing the chaos to consume it fully, before his true battles could begin. The sudden return of Tevinter's dragons was an unpredicted hindrance, but only if they had awoken strong, and if they could find significant allies…Would the Magisterium turn on the Chantry as fast as they had turned on their Old Gods?

He had no doubt they would, adding another dimension of unrest to Theadas, yet, in all truthfulness, all the Imperium could muster, even in the presence of its dragons…the dragons who were no dragons at all, was a human army, a human fleet...one he'd deprived of logistical support, and one that was already being sabotaged by the weakness of the Shem in the overwhelming presence of the Fade.

Still, even if still weak, the Old Gods would have knowledge, crucially, they would recognise Morrigan for what she was – whatever forces they could muster, they would be forces who knew where to find him; an army who knew where to find all his still defenseless people. He felt his heart was caving from within.

Solas looked out upon the recovering metropolis about him, in what was slowly becoming Arlathan – a ruin he had willed back into existence, and which was now bustling with innocent life by his will alone. He'd never intended for his too tried people to shed blood on his behalf; he'd caused them enough terrible grief, and by his fault alone, too much of their blood had been shed already.

While Vel, his rare and precious Vel, already knew too much and was learning too fast; the more power she gathered, the longer it would take to defeat her, and the longer the world he'd wished to end, but not drown in its own blood, would suffer.

He gripped his hands behind his back.

'We are, then, sure that she is no longer in Minrathous?' he asked, closing his eyes; the surrender caused Abelas' tone to soften.

'As reasonably sure as we can be, yes.' the Sentinel gently said.

'How shall we find her?' Solas asked, softly shaking his head.

 _Before the Old Gods do,_ he thought. _Before what I had hoped would be a pointed strike will turn into a lengthy massacre, and I…_

'Tevinter knows where she is,' he reasoned, biting his lower lip. 'The dragons will force them to move.'

Behind him, Abelas nodded. 'It may also be that she will find _you.'_ He neutrally said. 'They do have an eluvian,' he reminded. 'They have not managed to introduce it to the Crossroads yet, but I assume it is only a matter of time.'

'Time is precisely the one thing we do not have, my friend,' Solas said. 'Please, find her.'

 _Find her before I lose my resolve._

* * *

Good evening, all! Well, he had to make an appearance at some point, didn't he? And, of course, it had to be suitably ominous. I guess the games are seriously on now...

Sorry about the rather short installment, we'll be back later in the week with a rather more consistent chapter, where Cassandra and Radonis will make an acquaintance I am sure neither will relish too much.

Thank you for reading and commenting!


	31. True Sight

_Sword-shattering fear filled me overflowing._

 _Grandeur of godhood no gaze should defile._

 _Trembling, I called out: "Forgive me, Most High,_

 _I should sing Your Name to the heights of heaven,_

 _But I know it not, and must be silent."_

 **Andraste 1:9, 1-5**

* * *

It was a nightmare, Divine Victoria thought, a nightmare from which she could not awaken, not even here, in Radonis' study, where the sensation of heavy, physical uneasiness had dulled into almost non-existence.

In the world outside, however, it was an entirely different story, less so in Tevinter than in Orlais and Ferelden; that was, perhaps, to be expected. For as much as had been lost, the Imperium remained the continent's only magical powerhouse, and their ease around demons, the freedom they granted their mages…the sheer number of mages, rendered them far less vulnerable to whatever new attack Solas had unleashed than Southern Thaedas, which had erupted into pandemonium in little over a day.

In Ferelden, the reports of random demonic manifestations had caused sieges on Magi Towers; caught on the wrong foot, the Templars had not known whether to defend from the sudden explosion of abominations within the towers' walls or from the mobs outside. Kirkwall was burning once again, the blaze extending throughout other cities in the Free Marches, while corpses that had lain still for centuries had risen and walked in Nevarran necropolae, attacking those mortalitasi who had not become demons themselves…

In Orlais, the Montsimard Circle had taken refuge in the Winter Palace, but despite Vivienne's early and wise preemptive actions, the Council of Heralds, who had, thus far, ignored the elvhen exodus could not decide between putting all elves that remained through the sword, to confirm that the sudden disease that had descended upon all humans, but left the elvhen unaffected was not simply another version of the Denerim plague, or ending the lives of all the mages, even those who struggled to keep the _disease_ from descending upon them in its full might.

Antiva City – Antiva as a whole, it seemed – suffered from a spate of riots and unprecedented looting, whose demonic source could only be assumed, but not fully proven; the Felicissima Armada had been taken out to sea, to prevent arson, but by mid-afternoon, all contacts with its many ship captains had been lost.

Crows and pigeons crisscrossed the continent from north to south and east to west; there had even been communication from a Par Vollen so stricken with shock that it had omitted to be belligerent. The Qun was yet unaffected by the chronic fatigue illness that was infecting the humans, indiscriminately, yet they too had seen an unprecedented spate of sarebaas turning on the tamassran, and even members of the Beresaad with no previously known magical powers suddenly losing their minds – it was hinted that the Arishock himself was among them, though the sight of the dragon had rendered the Qunari messenger predictably mum on the subject.

Alone, under a deceitful dome of peace, Minrathous stood still, in bewilderment of a completely different manner, and of course, both Divines felt as if their Chantries had just been landed the final, killing blow, the one after which only a merciful appearance of Andraste herself could salvage them. Because _she_ was the only utterly absent Godly figure of the realm; the Elvhen had just unleashed their last divinity upon the world, and just fifty feet from Radonis' window, a sapphire dragon continued to sleep, with a deep, rumbling snore.

The only small mercy in all of this was that the dragon's appearance had not caused any outright explosion of joy in the city. Though crowds had gathered to behold the wonder, the Magisterium had done its best to restrain both re-empowered and proudly resurfaced _cultists_ and Chantry forces from lighting fires, one way or the other. It might, perhaps had been better if the mood of the city had not been so stifled and uncertain, if the crowd had cried out in adoration or wailed in despair, but there was nothing…Nothing, but eerie, silent contemplation, in Three Imperators Square, as well as in Radonis' study, which overlooked it.

The Archon himself seemed neither joyous nor frightened. Not the same could be said about parts of the concilliarum – Magister Cassius, in particular, seemed ten years younger and walked with a spring in his step, although to Cassandra's eye, the dragon had snubbed them all, and Cassius specifically, in a rather poignant manner.

The only thing that seemed to have soured Magister Cassius' day was the fact that Radonis had seen fit to call conciliarum in the presence of the Divines, Arl Teagan, and even Leliana, who was, after the Orlesian ambassador had packed up his household, and hastily fled the city, the closest thing to a reliable Orlesian liaison that the Imperium had.

'Good thing we didn't invite the Qun,' Cassius had snorted, taking his seat as Leliana walked through the door; to her credit, the Nightingale had offered him a resplendent smile and a very polite bow, and sat as far away from him as possible, even if it meant she had to take a seat beside Arl Teagan, who had clearly spent a sleepless night, and had not bothered to wash or shave for the occasion.

He'd nonetheless been the first one who'd dared speak.

'Which one is he?' Teagan had asked, with no preamble.

'Lusacan,' Radonis had replied, in an equally curt manner. 'Though,' he'd added with a sigh, 'I fear we shall see Razikale soon enough.'

'You fear,' the Ferelden had mockingly echoed. 'Why would _you_ fear…'

Radonis had coughed to adjust his voice, and perhaps swallow a sharp response. 'I do not know why we would fear the Old Gods, Arl. It could perhaps be that they will not take well to the fact we have indeed, forgotten them and taken to a faith which is now, beyond doubt, proven _questionable.'_

'It could be akin to the uncertainty you might feel if the maiden of the Alamarr returned, in the flesh, and took exception to what all of us have done to her people, to the people of her Champion, or on how we have massacred the Chant of Light by picking of it only that which we all found politically convenient.' Radonis ended, smiling.

'You should be the last one speaking such blasphemy, Tevinter…' the Ferelden began, in the same unwisely cutting tone he had employed during all his stay in Minrathous.

'You asked a question,' the Black Divine intervened, removing his hat to wipe his brow of sweat, but nonetheless keeping his voice remarkably level. 'You have received an answer. If the Maker's Bride, blessed be her name, chose to return among us, we all have wickedness to account for in her eyes, as well as those of the Maker.'

'It is your nation that has martyred her,' Teagan insisted, in a low snarl.

'Perhaps,' Radonis agreeably said; one of his cats jumped onto the table. It was a pretty and delicate creature, to Cassandra's eye, and aside for Cassius, who immediately covered his face in his sleeve, all regarded its sniffing at empty wine cups with tired, mild amusement. 'But one can argue that without her martyrdom, there would be no Andrastian faith, thus that her martyrdom was the Maker's will, and Tevinter was merely the instrument of that will.'

The cat sniffed at the air, then decisively headed for Leliana, who welcomed her into her lap with a practiced, charming giggle.

'None should question the Maker's will,' the Nightingale said, smiling towards Radonis; the man approved with an unreadable smile and a nod.

'Especially not with a dragon outside our window, and an elven fungus engulfing what we all hold as civilization.' Cassius sourly put in.

Cassandra withheld a sigh, and unwillingly glanced out, at the gigantic creature, knowing even before she once more measured it that it could probably roast an entire army with but one breath.

'What is his element?' she heard herself ask; all, even Radonis, knitted their brows in confusion. 'I apologise,' she said, realising that she had spoken not as the Divine should have, but as the sword bearing Penthaghast Seeker within. 'Dragons,' she began to explain, 'normally have an element they prefer, which makes them vulnerable to…'

'Ah,' one of the other conciliatus, a woman of Cassandra's years said, nodding. 'Magistra Maryam, of the House Tullius, most recently of Vol Dorma,' she said, introducing herself to Leliana, who was the only person in the room who'd never seen her before. 'I believe it is ice, though none knows for sure. The Ancients obviously have never tried to slay them.'

'Obviously,' Cassandra whispered; the female Magister shrugged.

'It is also obvious that all records of our Ancients' interactions with the Old Gods were duly burned, when the Chantry took over.' Maryam of the House Tullius said, no spite in her voice. 'Little is known. Razikale, I think, is lightning, though she is legendarily whimsical.' She said.

'We are not seriously discussing how to _kill_ the source of our power!' Cassius exclaimed. 'Your grace, this path…'

'If he wakes up in a sour mood, Magister Cassius…' Radonis said, letting the sentence drift.

 _If he wakes up in a sour mood_ , Cassandra thought, _he'll turn this city, and all of us, into a glacier filled with human sized icicles, before they even pull their staves. Worse, if…_

'If this is the start of a Blight…' Cassandra whispered, in turn.

'You southerners and your Blights,' Cassius muttered, shaking his head. 'Does he seem blighted, to you?' he asked, gesturing towards the great beast; she had to admit it did not.

Like all, the Divine had read accounts of the Archdemons of old. The one that had emerged during the Ferelden Blight was still recent enough in common memory that there were men left alive who could speak to its appearance of horror and rot – this creature was, even to the eyes of one who dreaded it, beautiful beyond comparison and doubt. It spoke, and no army of darkspawn had preceded him or risen in his wake.

She nervously ran her fingers though her hair, her glance affixed to the sapphire dragon. The sun was descending, causing its scales to glitter blindingly.

'May I inquire but one thing?' Leliana said, lifting the cat to her arms, in an obvious attempt of gaining good will from its master. 'Your grace,' she said, to Radonis. 'Your excellences.' Leliana followed, addressing the Magisters of the concilliarum. 'Your worships?'

'By all means, Sister Nightingale,' Radonis agreed, before Cassandra could shake off her unwanted fears and give her friend permission to speak.

'What has awoken the Watchman of Night? For ages he has slumbered, heedless to implorations and sacrifices doubtlessly still given to his name. What voice could call so high, or indeed, low, that…'

Radonis narrowed his eyes, yet the smile never left his features.

'Is your _guest_ uninformed on the matter, Sister Nightingale?' the Archon asked back.

'This countering, your grace…'

'Is beneath us both?' Radonis said, smiling in a way that somehow, made him look impish. 'Legends are true then, Sister Nightingale; not only can your voice soothe the savage beasts across all Thaedas, but your ears hear through walls. The only legends that regard you which seem untrue are of your influence and ability to obtain answers and loyalty from all who surround you. Your guest, the witch of the Korkari Wilds is impervious to your charms alone, I gather?'

'I am assured she would become more forthcoming should I and Magister Cassius…combine forces?' Leliana replied, smiling to the man who had bristled at her presence as if he'd been an old and dear friend…and with this offer, one the Divine and her left hand had previously discussed and hastily agreed on, Cassandra noted, in fright, Leliana lost Radonis.

Something, an elongated, slippery shadow, glistened underneath the perpetually clear surface of Radonis' blue eyes, so fleeting that Cassandra wondered if she'd imagined it; the smile that was as effective as an Orlesian masquerade mask, did not slip. The Archon leaned back in his chair.

'Information gathering is something that I am pleased to acknowledge both you and Magister Cassius are admirably adept at. However, for as little versed on the subject I admit I am, I think information sharing is an acquired skill and we are rather short on the time needed to acquire it…'

'In other words, _no_ _cooperation_ ,' Arl Teagan angrily and unwisely interrupted. Cassandra felt grateful for it, nonetheless. 'Enough of the game doublespeak – you both _know_ something, maybe different parts of the same truth, but you are willingly jostling your pieces of the truth so that no side can see the whole before the other does.'

'Perhaps,' Radonis answered causing Cassandra to exchange a quick glance with Leliana.

'Ferelden's capacity for seeing to the heart of all matters is always such ray of sunlight on days beset by mist,' Sister Nightingale nodded. 'Yet Lusacan is said to be awake at night,' Leliana replied, caressing the cat. 'The sun is disappearing across the horizon. Not only is this countering beneath all of us, but we should, perhaps, seek an answer to his appearance before he offers one himself.'

Radonis leaned back in his chair, knitting his fingers together, assessing the half offer, half threat; to Cassandra's great relief, he exchanged a quick, questioning glance with Maryam of House Tullius, not Cassius – still, the feeling was all too brief.

He did not outright _know_ , the Divine felt, but he had an inkling of a suspicion, as did a few of the others, Morrigan included – Leliana's offer of information sharing may have been veiled, but it had been sincere.

Radonis must have known so, but, on the other hand, he was a man now torn between initiating true cooperation with the Imperium's former provinces, and letting the dice fall where they may for Southern Thaedas, and seeing to the Imperium alone. A furious Old God might, indeed have spelled disaster, but then, newer Gods did not seem more easily appeased. It mattered little whether Lusacan froze Minrathous or Solas gradually ground it to dust, and, in the end…

If the monster had not woken in a mood to devour after ages of slumber, Cassandra thought, trying to imagine what may have lied behind Radonis' mask, it was improbable that he would wake up in such a mood after a day-long nap; and if Tevinter made amends with the Gods it had indeed, forgotten – though what the price of such amends might be, she did not care to envision… If, then, Tevinter had two entities whom, by legend, rivalled Solas' power, Tevinter could stop him alone, without the other nations of Thaedas: a whisper of hope and a promise of great dread, carried on a single breath.

Unfortunately for herself, Cassandra knew it was a gamble she had once taken in the same direction that she feared the Archon of Tevinter now would. Had she not, in a world that was tumbling to chaos around her, and when the institutions she had dedicated her life to had suddenly crumbled to gaggles of squabbling children, turned to unknown forces for aid?

Leliana still spoke, as did Teagan; Cassius interjected from time to time, as did Magistra Tullius. The rest of Radonis' shadows remained silent and watched them, while Radonis himself was as distant from the time wasting exchanges as Cassandra herself was. Though all had been facing the wide window and the dying sunlight, they _all_ still spoke; Radonis didn't. He'd simply lowered his glance and kitted his fingers on the table, watching their shadow stretch out over the scattered parchments and maps, a thin watchtower of indecisive shadow growing across Orlais and Ferelden alike, then spreading out into true darkness as the sun hid behind the Watchman of Night.

'You did not need any of us for this, Archon Radonis,' the Divine spoke up. 'Your decision was made before you summoned this room.'

The suddenness of the realisation had been as swift as the words; her unspoken thoughts may have wound at what to her inner self felt as an excruciating pace, but in this regard, of many others, Divine Victoria was unfair to herself. She did not think slowly, she merely thought deeply, and was a better reader of humans than she gave herself credit for.

The Archon of Tevinter was truly in the same position that she'd been in when she had called the Inquisition – barring a few delicate details: that she had had a script from Divine Justinia's hand to support her decision, and that to her choices there was no upside. She'd also not been chosen by a land, to represent their interests. She'd had Leliana and Josie to carry the sacks of sand of politics for her. Radonis had none of those things to ease him, and he was, in the end, just a man.

'You'll make a deal with the dragon, because you do not think there is any other way out,' Cassandra said.

Radonis met her glance. She first saw him without his mask, but learned nothing aside what she had already guessed: the man beneath the mask was sorry and apprehensive, and she understood him better than she might have liked.

'Why did you call us here, then?' Teagan snarled. 'To gloat, to…'

He shielded his eyes with his hand, because, as the sun truly disappeared, all the enchanted candles scattered around the room came alight.

 _I regret this,_ Radonis' glance said.

All heard, rather than saw the second awakening of the Watchman – it was a rumble and a scratch of scales rubbing against stone; by the time they had reached the window, to fully watch it, the dragon had already uncoiled and stood on its hind legs, yawning wide and looking about.

He stretched his wings out…

 _Maker,_ Cassandra thought, again noting its sheer size…

…then wound them back in, without batting them even once.

There was nothing even remotely human in its face and it did move as an awoken animal, confined by a cage that did not allow it to fully stretch, yet the decision of not batting its wings had been one of distinct _human_ intelligence: if it had truly batted them, it might have caused the buildings that had survived its landing to crumble.

She could hear the crowd in the square below breathe out, as one, and only when they did so did she realise she was holding her breath too. The dragon lowered his head to look at them…smell them, the slits of its nostrils opening and closing with each deep inhalation. Maker, it was so large, and so close that Cassandra could see its eyes, perfect, deep and clear turquoise, more akin to the eyes of a cat than those of a reptile, moving slowly from one face to another, measuring all.

Slowly, it snaked downwards along the body of one of the juggernauts, its movement a triumph of the balance between grace and strength. The crowd drew back, but it did not halt – the ranks at the forefront of the human mass pressed into those at the back, yet none fled, and soon, the crowd had to part to allow the creature passage. It slithered among the ants that were barely as tall as his claws, still lazily looking about itself, so heavy that the ground shook and cracked at each of its steps, until it stopped at the very centre of the square; it stood there, motionless, for a moment as long as a decade, allowing all to bask in its magnificence.

It was so close now that, had it swiped his front paw, it might have ripped straight through the middle of the Argent Spire's tower…Close enough for even a Penthaghast to know that any struggle against this creature would be utterly hopeless, even if...

It did not swipe its paw. It simply raised his head and looked at them _,_ knowing what, and especially who he was looking at.

…even if, gazing into its eyes, she'd seen that it truly was _only_ a dragon.

It wasn't – from up close, for it had come so close now that if Radonis had opened his windows, he might have touched the dragon's snout, its eyes sparkled with human intelligence, its reptilian features had _expression._ It…no, not it, _he_ spoke again.

 _Your Lord, the Watcher of Night awakes, City of the Magisters, and yet I see not all mine servants come to greet me._

More presence than words, the voice of Lusacan vibrated through Cassandra's bones to the marrow, causing her tremble not with fear, but pleasure. That, more than any possessive claw at her spirit or skin crawling roar made the Divine blanch in fear. Before Cassandra had a moment to speak, the last vestiges of the sun were blotted out as Lusacan shifted his head to the side, and gazed attentively through the window.

He did not speak, this time – there was only the unblinking, amused gaze of a vast eye, which now more resembled a giant field of painted glass than any portion of a living animal. It was perhaps the most beautiful thing Cassandra had ever beheld and she stood transfixed – it was not for long, however; the dragon once more shifted his glance away, and let out a puff though his nostrils, delicate enough not to shatter the glass. Instead, frost flowers blossomed across it in the blink of an eye, stealing their view of the square below.

 _Do not content yourselves with watching. Descend, and witness first hand my rebirth,_ Lusacan said.

Cassius' chair clattered to the floor, as the man stood in terrible haste - the tower shook Cassandra, and all others out of the awed reverie; the Magister scrambled for the door, as did four others of the concilliarum, the five all but trampling over each other to get out. Cassius nonetheless reached the door first, and pulled on its handle, once, then twice, with renewed strength, and still to no avail.

Features contorted with hatred and rage, he spun to his master. 'Why is this locked? Why…' he uttered, in an inhuman growl. The last two of Tevinter's representatives exchanged a tiredly amused glance.

'Because we assumed you would do this, Magister Cassius. Magister Publius,' Maryam Tullius said. 'We shall proceed to pay homage in proper order, not in a disgraceful stampede.'

'You'll not deprive those who have harboured the true faith from their moment of triumph!' another Magister sneered. 'You'll not…'

'We've no intention of doing that, Magister Piso,' Radonis agreeably said. 'But we are assured that the Watchman will not bestow the office of Archon upon the first Magister he lays eyes upon; we shall hence proceed to offer our devotions, as we would proceed on any other state engagement.'

'With _you_ in our lead,' Cassius spat, audibly gritting his teeth.

'With me in your lead,' Radonis replied, smiling; with tiredness and dread lacing his every movement, he stood, and unfastened the Blade of Mercy from his hip to lay it on his desk – unconsciously, as he stepped forward, he let his fingers run across the sword's scabbard and hilt, in a gentle, regretful goodbye caress.

'Don't be so scornful, Cassius,' the Archon said, passing amid his clearly hostile advisors, to unlock the door. 'It may well be the dragon will eat whomever steps up to him first. It is also, I think,' he added, as he emerged into the corridor not looking over his shoulder, 'time for me to remind you of an old adage; you did me this favour not so long ago. Woe to the leader – their back is always turned to many daggers.'

'And we all carry one, your grace,' Cassius hissed.

'I know you do,' Radonis nodded, but stepped up and turned his back on them, nonetheless.

 _I understand now why you liked this man, Veldrin,_ Cassandra thought, swallowing dry before she took a tentative step of her own, hand on her sword's hilt. _This man walks in true grace._

'Leliana,' she whispered, looking to her friend, only to find her features pale and her gaze empty. 'Leliana, my friend, I shall…I need to see…'

'I cannot, Cassandra,' Leliana whispered; she was shaking like a leaf. 'I cannot go down there. That entire market will set knee to ground once Radonis does, and I…You cannot ask this of me.'

The Divine nodded, and squeezed her friend's shoulder, nodding. 'I understand,' she said; she turned her gaze to the Black Divine, but there was nothing she could say to him – the man was still collapsed in his chair, his face covered in his hands, still breathing, but a soul dead, desperate husk regardless.

She once more nodded, this time to herself alone, then followed Radonis and his concilliarum down the corridor – and found herself immediately shocked by the chaos that reigned outside the door. It was as if a flood had suddenly come thundering down the previously ordered corridors, its waters not carrying crushing boulders or uprooted trees, but bodies of men and women. It was to the same effect, however; the small cluster of templars that surrounded the Magisters barely managed to keep the rushing folk from outright trampling them, yet despite the rough shoving of shields and even the threat of blades, the group looked as a small boat swaying dangerously on the bloated, furious waters of a mountain river.

The range of safety the templars managed to keep around the Magisters was less than a foot wide, and even that threatened to falter at each step – mages in Altus robes, questors, scribes, servants poured out from every room and from around every corner, shoving and trampling each other, each intended on carving a path for themselves and get ahead of others with their elbows or even fingernails. None noticed the ones who stumbled and fell, none noticed the grunts, or screams, or cracking of bones. This was no march of faith, the Divine thought, this was desperate panic, as if all human beings in the Senate building had thought the dragon had addressed them personally.

Cassandra could not fight the human tide, so she allowed herself to be carried, trying not to think of what or who she was stepping on when she slipped; she was crushed upon the shield of one of the Templars, then helplessly swept aside, just as the group was approaching the staircase landing. Here, the fleeing men were getting truly desperate, the river now encountering a dangerous turn and narrow straights. Radonis's entire detail was pushed to the side, and Cassandra found herself helplessly flattened between the wall and the shield of the bewildered templar, who was pressing all his weight on it and hiding behind it at the same time.

'Maker's breath!' she loudly cursed, pushing back with all her might – she was wearing armour, but it was light, and no match for the weight of a man with a tall shield and in full battle irons. Surprised by the backwards pressure, the templar peeked above his shield, but it was all Cassandra needed. Painfully freeing her arm, she grabbed the man by the side of his helmet and pulled it off, not so she could see him, but so he could see her; not that it mattered much, as there was no glint of recognition in his eyes, only surprise at the fact that he was truly crushing another person, which was clearly not his intent, followed swiftly by confusion on what he should have done next. The pressure he was putting on the woman increased, because he too was being pushed – there was no radius around the Magisters now, and he was faced with the very unpleasant choice of persisting in what he was doing, or letting an unknown armed individual within the huddle of those he was meant to protect.

Still, small fortunes existed – a robed arm reached over the templar's shoulder, grabbing Cassandra by the edge of her breastplate, and yanking her in; still confused, but definitely grateful that the decision had been taken by a higher power, the man shifted his shield aside just enough to allow her to slip though. Unfortunately the movement scratched the mage's arm to the blood.

'Kevesh!' Maryam Tullius cursed, looking at her torn robe and bloodied arm. 'Fasta vass1!'

All glances within the small, and increasingly pressed together group incredulously turned to her; though she was still struggling for breath, Cassandra noticed Radonis did actually appear shocked.

'Magistra Tullius…erm,' one of the others said, 'the Divine…'

'I'm not cursing at the Divine, Piso!' the Magistra thundered. 'What in the blazing hell are we doing? We're getting swept aside like worms, when…'

'…when it became poignantly clear that we are no longer the power in the land,' Radonis shrugged, unpleasantly rubbing shoulders with Cassius. 'What do you propose, shooting chain lightning down the stairs, to clear them to our passage?'

'If she is, she's not the only one thinking that.' Cassius mumbled, nudging Publius away from himself. 'Some dignified entry we're making,' he sneered.

'At least you did get crushed in the stampede and no one has room to draw a dagger,' Radonis said.

'Don't start with me, Clodius Radonis!' the Magistra spat. 'No more of this kaffas!' she huffed, yanking one of her earrings out, and causing it to blaze in focus. The push of her barrier spell caused all outside the templar's protective ring to stumble tens of feet backwards, and fall over each other; some unfortunates, who were closer to the group were thrown over the railing, and landed twenty feet below with thuds dulled only by the screams of the others.

'If have die on my knees, I shall at least walk out there without servants and Liberati trampling my robes,' Magistra Tullius said, dryly, regaining the evenness of her breath even as she had given all others room to breathe. 'Your grace,' she said, stretching her bloodied arm towards the now empty, majestic staircase. 'If you will.'

Radonis lowered his glance, nodded, and started downwards – with the luxury of the few feet of distance he'd been awarded, he walked ahead of the others, waving Cassandra to his side.

Barely resisting the urge of elbowing Cassius to the face as she pushed past him, Cassandra did join Radonis at the point of the small arrow. She did not need to make her strides wide, for he was walking with small, unhurried steps, hands clenched behind his back, as a man might have, she dully thought, when taking a stroll through a fragrant garden.

'I cannot guarantee your protection beyond the doors just ahead of us, your worship,' Radonis spoke, softly. 'I cannot even guarantee my own. Perhaps it for the best if you were to return to the relative safety of my study.'

Cassandra pointedly pressed her hand to the hilt of her sword.

'That will not help either you or I, your worship,' the Archon said.

'There is no safety within these walls…' Cassandra began; he swiftly nodded.

'I did not think that spillage of humankind we just carved a way through was rushing to worship,' Radonis said. 'I think they were rushing to get out of the building and eager to take their chances out in the square. More side streets, you see. I could, of course, be wrong, in which case, I still cannot assure your safety. You are a brave woman of a faith that will be extinguished tonight, in Tevinter. Faith and fear are good cousins, your worship, and those who kill for one leave one as dead as those who kill out of the other. I do not wish your lynching to be the first of many I shall be powerless to stop.'

They were upon the last three steps when he finally turned to face her.

'Please remain here, your worship. Not in the building but within its grounds – I shall leave these men,' he followed, pointing to the twelve soldiers that guarded them, 'to protect you, if the need arises. They are not only skilled, but good men.'

'I need to see, Clodius Radonis,' she softly said, in turn – it felt right to call the man by his name, now that'd she'd learned in in full.

'I know you do. If I were you, I too would need to see. I am not asking you to not watch; I am asking you to not die foolishly, Divine Victoria. If you go out there, in that mob, you will. It is a mistake I can warn you of but not prevent you from doing. I can merely ask that you be wise. By your leave, your worship.' He ended, with a bow and a smile.

She followed him to the arch of the open door, but went no further. The Archon spared her a final glance, and a smile that felt genuine. 'I swear to you, should we not die tonight, we shall not forsake Thaedas.' He said, and Cassandra's heart skipped a beat, for she could read no threat in the words.

'Oh yes, lady Penthaghast,' Cassius cackled from behind, 'we most certainly will not.'

She did not have time to respond.

The seven moved forward within the protective barrier of Magistra Tullius' magic, a single bubble of order in the now chaotically jostling crowd – their walk was not a long one, but to Cassandra it felt like millennia before they came to stand before the dragon; if anything, their appearance had only caused the others to become more frantic, and their advance had not been slowed by hesitation, but rather by the fact that they were advancing as a frail ship navigating thick ice, which could crack its hull at any moment.

Lusacan looked about himself, his expression denoting naught but disgust, as in its upheaval, the crowd was even closing in on him, and some unfortunate had been pushed forth so recklessly that it brushed against the dragon's claw, then shrieked, seeking to dive back in the solid mass.

 _Cease this!_ He thundered, shifting his momentous weight, and half batting his wings. _Cease this, and tremble before the power revealed!_

And there it was, again, the voice that was more sensation which grated within – more than its icy breath might have, more of the implied threat of his movement, which by now, would have crushed tens of men, if the dragon chose to spin about itself, the people froze and slowly moved back, a step, then two, allowing both dragon and Archon some room, and as well as allowing Cassandra to catch a glimpse of Radonis turned back.

 _There is no man in history that I have pitied more,_ she thought.

Behind Radonis, Cassius and Piso threw themselves down on their knees; around the square, many others did so as well, in whatever little space they had to do it in, then more still followed –Cassandra hoped against hope that the ice flowers had not yet melted, and Leliana was not watching. Radonis still stood though, and few, too few others did as well. Cassandra prayed for their souls but nothing burned in her heart; the words were hollow.

She found herself hoping that these last few would kneel as well.

Lusacan lowered his head to look Radonis in the eyes, a glance the Archon could not sustain for long. He lowered his eyes, and lowered himself to his knees. All others followed, then, and in the heavy, terrible silence that followed, the dragon reared on its hind legs and roared towards the night sky, its cry making the empty heavens shake.

Cassandra turned to leave, for she too could watch no longer; the voice caught her unprepared, and she spun on herself once more, in shock. It sounded as if the monster had sighed.

 _So I see now all that is left of unassailable Minrathous in the Defilers' wake,_ Lusacan said, his sapphire glance rolling over the square; none dare look up. He looked…dismayed? The Divine thought, in a daze, a daze which was soon overtaken by true dread, as Lusacan lowered his head so much that it all but lay on the ground beside the Archon – and yet, no teeth were bared, and no spikes bristled: the dragon simply used its enormous, scaled jaw to give the Archon a nudge so mild that the man did not even lose his balance.

 _I said tremble, not kneel,_ Lusacan spoke. _Rise thee, bearer of the Ferryman's Ring, heir to Darinius, for I have much to demand and learn of thee before we might the foe in battle…That, and mine neck has a crank in it such as only millennia of contorted sleep could grant me; looking down all the time is a mighty pain._

Radonis stood, and Cassandra noted that only now the Archon was shaking from all his joints long before she noted that her lower jaw must have been resting on the floor.

* * *

1 No clue what these literally mean, but they are Old Tevene swear words a bit rougher than Kaffas.

* * *

And so, Cassie and Radonis meet Lusacan...and he is not what they expected, is he, now...well, wait till the next installment.

In the meanwhile, a good chiropractor is a wise investment!

We thank you for reading and commenting.

Cheers, Abstract :)


	32. Incarnation

_And so we burned. We raised nations, we waged wars,_

 _We dreamed up false gods, great demons_

 _Who could cross the Veil into the waking world,_

 _Turned our devotion upon them, and forgot you._

 _ **Threnodies 1:8**_

* * *

Of all that now beheld the _man,_ none seemed more shocked than he was; he cast another, questioning and displeased glance down his right arm, then purposefully flexed each finger, as if he'd just been learning how to use them. He sighed deeply, then turned his sapphire, catlike eyes on the small knot of humans, who still huddled together in the opposite corner of the room, lingering fear and incredulity uniting them despite vast differences in nation and rank.

'This game of shapes is nay to win,' he sighed. 'This one is puny, the other unwieldy…Thine world has much to answer for.'

'How…' Cassius dared, 'how shall we address you, Ancient One? How…'

Lusacan took a moment to consider, then shrugged awkwardly. 'Whatever name of mine is more familiar to thine lips,' he said. 'Thou had not enough practice of any for a long time, yet one will spring to mind.'

'Lord Watcher,' Radonis said, softly.

'It be as good as any other name,' Lusacan replied. 'And cease this tiresome cowering forthwith – art thou mice, or men? I've not abandoned my glorious shape to the flock of ewe below to find more ewe up here.'

He sniffed at the air, and cringed. 'I hate the smell of stargazer flowers,' he said, almost plaintively. 'Why are such offers brought…'

'Long have lilies adorned your altars, Lord Watcher,' Cassius said. 'They open in the night, which is your domain…'

'Then blessed me that mine altars cannot smell,' the dragon god made human flesh responded, rolling his turquoise eyes.

'What might then please you…'

'An absence of fawning stupidity,' Lusacan dryly responded. 'But that this rarer in this age of my awakening than a branch of an Arlathan oak, I gather…'

He looked about himself, and sighed once more. '…and rarer still than the good sense to know a jape. O, tempora1.'

Lusacan sought a chair to sit on, and oddly, did not pick the Archon's; he picked Leliana's, looking, in great curiosity, at the cat that was occupying it, and even smiling at its protests at being woken up. It was perhaps this to cause Radonis to cross the invisible line at the centre of the chamber and regain his seat. Cassius found his own resolve a second later – he also found his bile.

'Should we not eject the priests of the false God,' he began, setting his narrowed, hate filled glance on Cassandra, 'from your holy presence, Lord Watcher?'

The Old God set his glance upon Divine Victoria; she, in turn, placed her hand on the hilt of her sword, making him chuckle with an eerie, unpractised sound. 'Why, Magister?' he asked, once more turning to Cassius. 'To see is to believe, and _she_ believed in me far more than you ever did – her song, both misguided and ignorant, does not deny mine existence, while you followed one of the Defilers, who claimed he came to us in supplication but empty found our seats of power, a mortal who told you the glory of Tevinter was the work of mortal men. No, creature who would elevate itself in my eyes by setting knee to ground before me, there shallt not be _ejections_ from this counsel, bar those of them who would ejections have.'

Even Radonis looked to Lusacan in surprise.

'Nor,' the God followed, 'will there be burnings of temples and books, nor of men. No war that ever started with a pyre ended elsewhere but where it started – upon a pyre of its own…A lesson that our enemy has yet to learn, I see, though mine is not the doubt that he has not witnessed it repeat itself through history.'

'You know Fen'Harel, then?' Leliana stuttered, inching forth.

'Fen'Harel?' Lusacan frowned. 'A name which brings forth nothing to this, mine mind; our foe is Solas.'

'One and the same,' Cassandra breathed.

The God shaped like a man leaned forward and attentively beheld her, as if attempting to discern the truth in her words.

'How do you know he…our foe,' Radonis corrected, 'is the Elvhen named Solas?'

'Immortals oft cross each other's' paths. As oft as mortals do, just greater mountains are ground into dust betwixt each crossing, and we behold more ruins when we look over our shoulders than mortals do…'

'The man who woke me stands not here among you,' Lusacan thoughtfully followed. 'Nor was his call to mine presence one of faith – but he called on mine power, and I heard him; for that to be possible, the walls of my prison must have been weakened – and there is but one man I know who could do such a thing, in this age, or in the ages before this one. The Elvhen, as you call him, Solas.'

Lusacan chuckled to himself. 'Fen'Harel…The grand eschewer of titles finally acquires one. How comes he by his name?' he asked of Radonis.

The Archon swallowed dry. 'If we are to believe what we have learned, the name was given him when he led a rebellion against the other Elvhen… _Gods,'_ he brought himself to say, watching Lusacan's eyes for signs of anger; there was none, though – just a brief flicker of wicked satisfaction. 'It is said that the Evanuris murdered Mythal…'

At this, Lusacan laughed, the tone of his voice becoming more natural by the minute. 'They killed Mythal! Mine slumber was not dreamless, yet such a pleasant dream as this was not given me!'

'She did not quite stay dead,' Leliana dared, in a whisper.

'Of course she did not,' Lusacan shrugged, as if the knowledge brought him no surprise. 'Yet I am overjoyed to hear she, of all, has had to learn the _great pleasures_ of re-embodiment – hah! But follow on, thine tale is music to mine ears. They killed Mythal, high crime against the very heavens, and they did not see Solas rising against them, high crime against intelligence…But, a common one,' he sighed, mostly to himself. 'Follow on then – his vengeance must have come swiftly.'

'Indeed,' Radonis nodded. 'It is said that he created the veil, then, to imprison them…'

Lusacan huffed. 'Is that how thee and thine explain the wicked barrier's creation in your temples, priestess?' he asked Cassandra; there was no trace of irony in his voice.

'No,' the Divine responded, dryly.

'Well, thou art but human, in the end,' the Watcher said. He smirked. 'This dents mine pride at having done away with Arlathan, but not all that came to pass in mine absence could be joyous. Thou need not follow with thine tale,' he thoughtfully said. 'Solas created the veil, and so destroyed Elvhenan all on his own, with nay need of an army…and then, after his temper had finally stilled, he realised what he had done.'

'And wishes to undo it,' Radonis softly said.

'Heh,' Lusacan said. 'Return the killers of Mythal to his people? Unlikely. When Solas puts a critter in a box, he intends to leave them there…'

He bit his lower lip, in thought. '…if, indeed, he can so do. Hm. 'Tis rare to fear one's enemies' mistakes, yet if he blunders this…'

Lusacan drifted to distance and silence, unaware of the trepidation in those who surrounded him; Cassandra could not take it for too long.

'Lord…Lord Watcher,' she brought herself to say, though gritted teeth, 'the unchanging world is burning all about us; if you know of a way…'

'The unchanging world burns every so often, priestess of the misguided song.' He dismissively said. 'And yet behold, it never burns fully, and somehow finds a different way to blossom and recover before it burns again. In a time long before your time, mine brother, whom you named Zazikel, called this _renewal…_ '

He stood, and strode towards the window, to behold his vacant dragon form, and the myriads of small shrines and offerings that were now surrounding it. ''Tis no bewilderment of mine that your world burns. What does vex me, however,' he followed, turning to face them and grinning wide, 'is that I have been stood here among you for the best part of a night, and while all flock to honour me with foul smelling plants, none has yet offered me a single elf; not even an ear off one. Why is that?' he asked, in a falsely benevolent tone.

Cassandra, Leliana and Radonis blanched.

'We…uhm,' Cassius stuttered, 'we don't have any…er, on hand.'

' _You_ still have Gladius,' Magistra Tullius acidly put in; Cassius looked utterly disconcerted by the swipe.

'Indeed,' he breathed out. 'Shall I…' he further uttered, shakily beginning to rise to his feet, 'go, and…'

Lusacan's lips curled upwards, in wicked amusement, yet, for the Archon, this was a step too far; he stood a lot faster than Cassius and faced the dragon god. His voice was laced with fear, such as none who knew him had ever heard it, but he nonetheless spoke.

'Lord Watcher,' he said, 'I beg your forgiveness, but the blood of one single elf shall not, I fear, appease you for all the wrongful paths we've walked without your guidance…'

'The blood of thousands might,' Lusacan responded, his grin turning cruelly crooked.

'We no longer _possess_ those numbers, my Lord; our enemy has taken them from us,' Radonis whispered, lowering his glance, 'and, as such, I beg you that the few elvhen who remained at our side, showing great loyalty, be spared…Their numbers are insufficient to bring you satisfaction…'

'And you, Ferryman of Tevinter, heir to Darinius,' Lusacan said, leaning towards the Archon in a manner which poignantly reminded all of his reptilian form, 'value _their_ lives above _my_ pleasure?'

Radonis clenched his jaws before replying. 'Not all share my…my values,' he brought himself to finish.

'Traitor,' Cassius hissed; the Watcher's glance did not shift from Radonis.

'I can unseat you,' the god neutrally said.

'I know that, Lord Watcher,' Radonis nodded.

'I could kill you,' Lusacan followed.

'I know that too.' The Archon said.

The Watcher shook his head, and smiled with unreadable sadness before once more turning away from them all and clenching the windowsill, while keeping his turquoise eyes closed.

'You do not worship me, Ferryman,' Lusacan dreamily said. 'But you do fear me; thine voice betrays it, thine _smell_ betrays it – still you stand up to mine demands, and now that thine fate rests with me, a prayer must be in thine heart…Who is it to?' he queried, not turning, and not opening his eyes. 'Do you pray to the god of the false song?'

'No, Lord Watcher,' Radonis said, softly. 'I pray to wisdom and magic.'

Lusacan chuckled bitterly. 'Then mine shall not be fair news to deliver, Ferryman. Mythal is dead, you say, so wisdom is dead or at least scattered; and as for magic…Mine sister, the one you call Razikale, still slumbers. Thine prayer, I fear, hath no ears it could reach.'

Radonis drew a deep breath and nodded – Maryam Tullius made her way to his side, and placed her still injured hand on his arm. The man looked down at her and shook his head, to tell her she needed not die with him. The woman shrugged.

Lusacan turned, great sadness in his cat eyes and simply strode past them, to regain his seat.

'My offer, Lord…' Cassius whispered – when faced with the fury and disgust he saw in the Watcher's eyes all but made him overturn his chair.

'Thou shall not buy the Ferryman's ring with the offer of a life that is not thine to offer!' Lusacan thundered. 'Thine elf is not thine slave, I see this in thine thoughts. How dare thou think that it is a gift more pleasing than seeing a man lay his own life across mine path, for he judges it wrongful?'

'If one of seven Magisters Sidereal2 had had the bravery to do the same, if only _one_ of the Defilers had stepped back from the ambition that was theirs and the blind hunger that was ours, the forms of your Gods would not have been tainted, their spirits not devoured! Yet there was none that stood against the madness that was our undoing – and one by one, dirtied and humbled and lost we died true deaths, and of the seven only two remain!'

'We cannot hope to win a war if we fight the same as when we lost it,' he said, in a far calmer tone. 'Very well, Ferryman,' he sighed, 'keep your elvhen – by thine account they have inflicted 'pon their world far more than our righteous vengeance ever could accomplish…'

'Vengeance, my Lord?' Cassandra asked; Lusacan gazed at her, then through her, as if he had been gazing into an inscrutable past.

'The reason why thine world keeps burning, priestess,' the dragon said, softly, 'is that it is, unknowingly, the stage of a war that has begun long before thine memory did, a war which has not yet ended, that will not end until Solas himself…is ended.' Lusacan finished, dryly.

'I fear I do not understand,' Radonis said, finding enough courage to frown, and sustain the dragon's gaze. Surprisingly, the Watcher smiled, with the same sad expression.

''Tis not a tale fit for all ears,' Lusacan said, briefly; he leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest. 'Is it Solas alone we face?'

'It is suggested that Mythal…' Leliana said. The dragon pursed his lips.

'That be nay good,' he thoughtfully said. 'Even in dream existence, she be a mighty foe.'

'And it is not only that,' Leliana followed, regaining some of her courage. 'We believe that Mythal also holds the essence of Urthemiel…the one we called Urthemiel,' she corrected, remembering Lusacan's pattern of speech.

The dragon frowned deeply.

'But is that even possible?' Magistra Tullius inquired. 'We thought Urthemiel dead in the Ferelden Blight.'

'He should have been,' Arl Teagan spoke up, for the first time. 'I stood there sword in hand when he was slain.' He ended, then froze, mouth ajar, when Lusacan's gaze suddenly snapped to him; once more, the dragon amazed them.

'Mine brother was slain when the corruption reached him,' Lusacan said, dryly. 'It was no mortal's weapon to end him, but his own hand, millennia ago; perhaps his essence could be cleansed,' he continued, standing and slowly beginning to pace, 'but that would require knowledge only Mythal possibly could hold…Hm,' he said, 'the odds are stacked, or would appear so…But nay that high, bird of song,' he said, addressing Leliana. 'Mythal might have cleansed him, but she has not awoken him, and hence cannot command his strength, for unto her he would not yield it in a thousand years and thousands more.'

'The woman who conducted the ritual was not Mythal, however,' Leliana said. 'It was one of her… _daughters_ ,' she finished, hesitating on the word.

'You mean a woman she was grooming for her vessel,' Lusacan said, with a small grin. 'I see the pains of her embodiment were greater than ours,' he eerily chuckled. 'Good, this too is pleasing to mine ear. Very well, then, mortals,' he said, 'thine counsel has been…enlightening, but,' Lusacan continued, finally getting to the one demand the entire room was dreading, 'the counsel I sorely miss is that of mine sister; she must be returned to me before the night is done.'

Radonis bit his lower lip. 'We still do not understand fully how you've returned to us; I fear…'

'Someone not in this chamber channelled my power through one of mine holy relics,' Lusacan shrugged.

'Dorian,' Radonis whispered, before he could catch himself – for very different reasons, Leliana and Cassius smirked horribly.

'Is that his name?' the Watcher asked, arching an eyebrow. 'And of what line is he?'

'House Pavus, Lord Watcher,' the Archon answered; there was no way around the truth now; Lusacan nodded, smiling agreeably.

'Good,' he said. 'I should like to be courteous when I bestow him with mine gratitude…Still, but for the thinness of the wicked barrier, the call of light might not have reached me. The same must be done for mine sister, before our foe realises his error.'

'He has not erred,' Cassandra bitterly said. 'He plans to remove the veil altogether.'

Lusacan shook his head. 'Not fully, nay, priestess, for if he so did…' He cackled ominously. 'If he so did, he would open one coffin too many, one he would not get the time or chance to once more close. He might have fooled us all, once,' he hissed between gritted teeth. 'We'll nay let him fool us twice; if he sets loose the Evanuris, they will _end_ him _,_ then they will turn on us, and then, only then, priestess, your world would learn the true meaning of the word _burn.'_

'Enough chatter, _'_ he dryly concluded. 'Go forth and do my bidding – there is a wretched temple in this ruin of the jewel we gifted you with, in our day. I opened my eyes there first, to spy the sorry remnants of my faith…and not an elf in sight there, either,' he muttered. 'They call to Razikale too, in this pitiful place, now, perhaps, with a little more genuine fervour; find something of hers, and channel magic though it…Also,' he added, though the Magisters had turned to obey him, the weight of the world on their shoulders, 'what is this city?' he asked pointing to a spot on the scattered maps.

'Vol Dorma,' Radonis responded, swallowing dry.

'It be not mine concern, but thou may well wish to evacuate at least its southern side, before thou waketh Razikale.'

'Why, Lord Watcher?' Magistra Tullius all but whimpered. 'Is the Augur likely to be less…less forgiving than you have shown yourself to be?'

'I don't know about that,' Lusacan chuckled. 'Not even Gods truly know the moods of women. Still mood foul or fair is of no importance. She'll take half the city with her on her first flight.'

'Why…'

'Because it is below it that she slumbers, mortal fools!' Lusacan thundered – and then there truly was a stampede towards the door.

* * *

1 O tempora, o mores – no literal translation into English, but the basic idea is that time changes morals for the worst. Cicero again, from his First Oration against Catiline and Second Oration against another guy whose name I cannot recall now.

2 The group of Magisters that by legend breached into the Fade at the call of the Old Gods

* * *

Hmmm...Could it be that Solas is not the only one who knows a _tiny bit more_ about the actual history of the realm than our heroes do? It would appear so! Also, he is not exactly what we thought he would be...So many wonderful possibilities!

Thank you for reading and commenting, and Happy Holidays for everyone :)


	33. The Way Home

_Elgara vallas, da'len_ _  
_ _Melava somniar_ _  
_ _Mala taren aravas_ _  
_ _Ara ma'desen melar_ _._

 _Sun sets, little one_ _  
_ _Time to dream._ _  
_ _Your mind journeys,_ _  
_ _But I will hold you here._

 _ **Dalish Lullaby, Verse 1.**_

* * *

Dorian watched her for a few silent moments, and Vel, who normally heard him approaching from three rooms away, did not even shift; it was, perhaps, because it was not _her_ this time.

Dorian could tell.

It was not as obvious as it had been the previous days, for her eyes were not flaming red. Still, there was a distinct glow to them, a deep crimson circle surrounding her golden pupils; she was kneeling in front of her mirror, at the centre of a diagram the likes of which Dorian had never seen before, and her lips were soundlessly moving to a language he was assured neither of them knew how to speak. Blue, dull light radiated from the mirror itself, making her still bruised features look gruesome.

Veldrin had always been pale, he thought, but now she looked cadaveric, and for the first time since it had all began, Dorian felt frightened. For her. For himself. For…

All the others were sleeping uneasily some fifty feet away, in one of the open corridors. After the activation of the artefacts, the aura of Zazikel's altar had grown to the underground, its flavour sickly, but bearable even without the assistance of magic. Nonetheless, none of the elves had wanted to rest under the domed, cracked ceiling, yet, while the distance seemed to make at least Sera, Skin and Dalish sleep easily, not the same could be said of Maevaris and Krem, or Dorian himself: the elves felt sickly beneath the place where the dragons had once reigned; the humans felt sickly away from it, as if some sort of thin, invisible barrier had insidiously risen to separate the worlds of the two races.

They had all, nonetheless taken turns in watching Veldrin sleep – she'd slept for almost three days, though he was unsure that _sleep_ might have been the correct word for it. She'd remained motionless, like a rag doll for the entire duration; she hadn't turned in her sleep, she had not even half woken to drink, she hadn't soiled herself. But for the fact that her breath had remained even and deep, she might have appeared dead.

The other worrisome thing was one that should have brought him joy, for, in her motionless sleep, Veldrin was visibly healing. Her broken nose straightened, her cheekbones rose in place, her split lips pulled themselves together, in a slow, but undeniable shifting of flesh and bone under the skin that was equally fascinating and dreadful to watch.

'Is this _uthenara?'_ he'd dared ask of Dalish, on the afternoon of the second day; the blonde elf had looked at him and helplessly shrugged.

'No one has seen _uthenara_ since before the fall of Arlathan, Dorian,' Dalish had softly made response. 'If it is, I would not know how to recognise it.'

'But from all we know, from your legends, from…Your people could be in this state for hundreds of years,' the human had said. 'And what is happening here…' He'd glanced upon his wife's features, and shaken his head. 'Human somniari,' he'd distantly said, 'influence the fade around themselves; your somniari did far more than that – they somehow used fade energies to maintain their bodies fed and clean.'

'That was in the absence of the veil, Dorian,' the woman responded, shaking her head. 'This is not _uthenara;_ it cannot be _uthenara._ '

'She's healing herself while asleep, Dalish. I would call that weaving of Fade energies into physical shape. Wouldn't you? Hundreds, if not thousands of years,' he'd repeated, not fearing his raised voice would wake Veldrin up, but actively hoping it might have.

Vel had not budged; her breath had not even hitched.

'Vel's not alone in that form,' the elf had answered. 'It might not even be her doing this. Or,' she'd added, with a shrug and a smile that was meant to be light-heartening, 'the veil is gone and we haven't noticed.'

'Both such cheerful prospects,' Dorian had muttered, rolling his eyes.

'She'll wake up,' Dalish had said, brushing her hand over his shoulder. 'Just tell her - _ma garas mir renan_ ,' she'd whispered to Veldrin and Dorian alike. ' _Ara ma'athlan vhenas_.'

'I never…' the human had whispered.

'Learnt Elvhen?' Dalish had bitterly returned. 'Don't worry, Shem, it's not a curse. It simply tells her to follow your voice, and you will guide her home.'

 _If only I knew where her home is,_ Dorian had thought, but not voiced; he'd not spoken the other phrase either, but he'd thought it, over and over. It was the closest he'd ever come to praying, and, in great irony, the words, or whatever else, had worked their magic just as the human had truly lost hope, and fallen to sleep himself.

Or perhaps, Dorian had thought, with a chill, Veldrin had woken up precisely when all others were too exhausted to watch her, and he was fascinated and frightened…and, for the first time, angry.

He'd made no effort to approach her silently, but she was so absorbed by her spell, and the hypnotising blue light radiating from the previously dead mirror that she only looked up once he stepped into her circle.

'I want to talk to Veldrin,' Dorian said, dryly.

'She's busy,' Imshael replied, in an equally dry tone. 'If you interrupt _us_ now, you will be wasting time I assure you, you do not have…'

'I do not care,' the Magister said.

'Eh,' Imshael chuckled, 'if you knew what is happening to the world above and around this charming rock that your ancestors built, you'd not be saying that. So be a good little boy, and let us finish what we're doing – I'll let you have her after. Well, _have_ her,' the demon shrugged. 'A way of saying.'

With that, he moved Veldrin's now fully crimson glance back to the mirror, and managed to keep still under Dorian's stare for the better part of five very silent minutes, before yielding in great annoyance.

'Who is not being practical _now?'_ Imshael asked, in Veldrin's voice. 'Your essence transfer diagrams are set, you have re-scripted the blood ritual – the eluvian is the final part of the trap. This spell is of the Elvhen, and you are a Shem standing in her circle; we cannot work this in your presence, unless you wish to give us your life. Veldrin chooses not to take it. Step away. Please, Amatus,' it said, and this time it was Veldrin. 'Just a foot back.'

He clenched his jaws, and stepped out of the circle; Vel's golden eyes, with no red crown about the pupils turned to him, and she tried to smile.

'Something is terribly wrong,' he tiredly whispered. 'This…thing…Why did you not tell me?'

'Because you would have looked at me as you are looking at me now,' Vel softly said.

'Oh, Maker, Veldrin,' he sighed, leaning against the smooth wall, and letting himself slip to sit on the floor. 'And you thought me – us – finding out like _this_ was a much better idea?'

The woman lowered her glance. 'The plan was that you wouldn't find out, until the very end…And then, it would not have mattered any longer. I'm…'

'You're sorry, I know. You've done nothing but be sorry since we arrived here,' Dorian angrily replied. 'Look, Vel,' he followed, trying to keep his temper in check, 'you are, arguably, the best mage I have ever encountered…'

'Other than yourself, of course,' Veldrin tried to jest.

'Eh, a week ago, I might have said that,' he muttered, 'but you've gone to a whole new level now – controlled possession? You _know_ that cannot be, Vel – sooner or later, even with a normal outsider…What next, Amata, a friendly demon army? A competently managed Blight?'

'You know all too well…' she pleadingly began.

'Yes,' he exploded, 'from Dalish! Because you…'

'There was no other way that I could have made the eluvian,' Veldrin snapped, finally meeting his glance. 'Do you think that if this knowledge had been lying about in a library somewhere, your people or mine might not have run across it, by now? Or do you assume Solas so foolish as to step through the eluvian we have in Minrathous?'

The man lifted both palms and shook his head in utter denial. 'Why wouldn't he, Vel? The man turns hundreds into stone with a blink…'

'Which brings us to a very good sequitur, Amatus,' the elf smirked. 'Do you think that you or I could face him alone?'

'We had Morrigan,' Dorian stubbornly answered, 'and I would give ten of her and twenty of her son…'

'Don't say that,' Veldrin whispered. 'You are too good for this.'

'No, Veldrin, I actually am _not.'_ He stingingly replied. 'I am not the man you think I am, Veldrin – in the end of all things, I am a selfish and spoiled Tevinter prince, and you are the person I care for most in this world, Lexi aside; you may be selfless, Amata, but I am not, and now I find that I've lost you for Morrigan's sake.'

'You haven't lost me,' she softly said; she sounded as if she did not believe herself, and Dorian breathed out in exhaustion.

'Not yet,' he sighed. 'But this can only end in one way, Vel, and we both know it. Do you imagine he will just… _leave_? Of his own accord?'

'We have a deal,' Veldrin said, dryly; the man threw his arms up in despair.

'And he'll honour it, because demons – excuse me, choice spirits! - are notoriously trustworthy!' he exclaimed.

'Well, Dorian, it's hardly as if _we_ had a choice,' she said. 'Did not notice that we were getting nowhere with the casting circles and the artefacts before…'

'And did you perhaps _not_ notice what happened after?' he shot, in irritation. 'The fucking air around you is different, Veldrin – you've acquired this energy-sapping glow, in fact, this entire bloody room looks and feels …'

'Ha!' she exclaimed; there was a minute jolt of her body this time though, as if for a moment, she'd tried to fight the demon's return. To no avail – the glance she turned on him was fully red, and he unwillingly pressed his back into the wall. 'Is that what you think happened here, handsome?'

Dorian gritted his teeth. 'Leave,' he hissed.

'Mhmmm, no. Doesn't work that way,' Imshael beamed. 'No matter how much you don't want me here, she does, because, well, while I would like to take full credit for what is happening, I'm afraid it is almost all on you, _Sparkler._ Magister Alexius would be so proud…'

'Don't you dare mention his name,' Dorian angrily breathed. 'Alexius was a good man, who did terrible things out of grief…'

'Or maybe he did them because some spoiled, selfish Tevinter prince could not swallow his pride for long enough to stick around to help him bear that loss and grief – he loved you like a son, you know, you were the mage that Felix could never be…' the demon amicably said, when Dorian's face drained of all colour. 'You remember him, right? Felix, the pitiful Soporati you loved enough _not_ to fuck?'

Dorian cursed under his breath and sprung to his feet, spinning on himself as fast as his trembling knees allowed – there were tears stinging in his eyes, and he would be damned if he would give the monster the satisfaction he craved.

The demon giggled pleasantly. 'I see - now you want to leave…just when I found a little wound to _tease_ there, huh? Suit yourself; it's all for the best anyway. You may think me untrustworthy, and that pains me to no end, let me tell you, but, hand on delightful Veldrin's heart, trust me when I say you truly lack the luxury of time. Given what you've done…'

'Go to hell,' Dorian said, though gritted teeth.

There was a terrifying chocking sound, and he spun on himself once more, only to find Veldrin clutching tightly at her own throat with both hands; her eyes were golden, but welling with tears too, so, pride and anger forgotten, Dorian hastily kneeled by her side, covering her hands in his and trying to pry them off. Imshael may have been gone from her mind, but her body was still possessed of his strength, so his efforts were to no avail.

'Let her go,' he pleaded, noting that Vel's grip on herself simply strengthened the more his efforts increased. 'Please,' he whispered, 'let her go…'

The grip loosened so abruptly that Dorian painfully jerked his wife's arms to the side – the relief was short lived, though, for when he once more met her stare, it had returned to glowing crimson, and the demon was smiling, though tears were still freely streaming down Veldrin's cheeks.

'See?' Imshael said. 'It's so much better when you are polite to me…'

'I thought you could not harm her if she didn't choose it,' the man said.

'I didn't,' Imshael seductively purred, 'but she cannot make choices I do not approve of, either…there are things that your broken paragon of goodness here doesn't want me to tell you, and other things that _I_ don't want her to tell you…Like for instance, what you have done. Not yet, I hate to spoil a good surprise; so all of your rudeness now accomplished no more than forcing Veldrin into making another little…trade. With me,' it cruelly grinned. 'The more you fight me, the worse you'll make it, but I don't mind. In fact, I'm starting to wonder if I can get you to the point where you will offer a trade of your own... You understand now, yes? All of your choices are an amusement to me, and can only lead to one place: the place where _I_ get what _I_ want.'

'What do you want?' the Magister spat.

'To see you dance,' Imshael amusedly answered. 'To see you _all_ dance. And,' he added, with a bored sigh, 'I want to finish Veldrin's mirror – it is truly a pity that here, she wants exactly what I want. No opportunity for trade…'

'What did we do?' Dorian asked, in true dread. 'Did we start a fucking Blight? What…'

The expression on Veldrin's face made his heart skip a beat, for she smiled, and playfully pressed a finger to the tip of her nose.

'Warm,' the demon said. 'Very warm, but…not quite. Though I do get the distinct impression that you, in particular, are soon going to wish you had.'

* * *

A bit of a sad one, this, but, yeah, meant to carry you through the most depressing week of the year. By depressing you more.

But, love and understanding will play each other out, and I (Abstract) love Dorian a lot. IvI says he could do something about the hair, but that he wants the moustache.

He is sooo not getting a moustache.

Thanks you for reading and commenting,

Cheers, Abstract.


	34. The song that will be sung by few

_World fell away then, misty in mem'ry,_

 _'Cross Veil and into the valley of dreams_

 _A vision of all worlds, waking and slumb'ring,_

 _Spirit and mortal to me appeared._

' _Look to My work,' said the Voice of Creation._

' _See what My children in arrogance wrought.'_

 _ **Andraste 1:1**_

* * *

'Well, she did not massacre Vol Dorma. It… _She_ … did not even fly out from under the city. She caused a crater but no damage…'

'Alright,' Radonis said, nodding to a bewildered Maryam Tullius, and rushing down the corridor alongside her. 'What does she want?'

'A pipe.'

'Say again?' the Archon queried. 'Nota bene1, a pipe is useless without tobacco so…'

'The Lady Mystery thinks tobacco too thin. She cannot see the future in smoke so thin, so she asks for weed.'

Radonis braced. 'Spindle weed?

'Gods old and new, yes, that she wants,' Maryam Tullius whispered. 'And she wants _your_ pipe, for whatever that means. I don't understand, your grace does not…smoke.'

He let out a strangled chuckle. 'I used to, two decades ago,' the man responded. 'So it so happens I do have a pipe; it is almost as if Flavius knew this would happen, he bought me one.' He whispered, to himself.

He shook his head, attempting to focus. 'It is…at home,' he told Maryam Tullius, who was arching an amused eyebrow. 'My wife will tell your chosen agent where.'

The Magistra chuckled. 'My chosen agent?' she asked. 'No, Clodius Radonis, _this_ I need to see myself. Besides,' she added, with a deep breath, 'I would rather have a moment's pause and visit with Livia than have another brush with the Augur – that pleasure should be yours alone.'

Radonis took a deep breath, and cast an askew glance out the window; the female dragon covered the male dragon's body with her own, abandoned and slack. It did not distract from her beauty – her scales were white, shaded in orange and purple and seemed to be changing colour depending on the angle at which they were beheld, she was mystery in and out of his sight. He paused there, with Magistra Tullius still by his side, as if the stolen moment could restore some sense of normality to the situation. It could not, so, unwillingly, he pulled himself away from the gigantic shapes of the revived Gods, and Maryam Tullius' reassuring presence, and went forth. Alone.

'Cassandra…Your worship,' Radonis said, greeting Divine Victoria, who stood once he entered his antechamber.

'You brought back Razikale,' Cassandra said; her voice sounded neutral, and, he considered, there was no inflexion that might have suited the situation; he'd had no choice, so, indeed, he had awoken Razikale, and for better or worse, the sky had not yet fallen in. Perhaps it was about to.

'Yes,' he shrugged. 'And all she asked for, once she was up, was to be out of it.'

The Divine adjusted her voice with a cough.

'She wants to smoke. Weed.' The Archon clarified, with a sigh. 'At least she did not ask for a necklace of elven ears,' he added.

'Maker have mercy.' The Divine replied, by sheer practice.

'Manaveris Dracona,' he whispered, by sheer practice too, and they braved the door of the study together.

In human form, Razikale was a beauty to a rare taste. She was more dangerous than mere beauty, however. She was interesting; her body was spectacular indeed, by any standard, but her face could only be described as odd, for she truly had an undeniable reptilian quality: her features were elongated, her cheekbones too tall and pointy, her purple eyes too round, her lips thin, and her nose so flat he could have sworn it had no bridge. Taken alone, none of them were in any way beautiful, still, all together, they formed an eerie balance, an undeniable, strikingly inhuman perfection.

Lusacan beheld the humans' shocked scrutiny of his sister's human form with benign amusement.

'Seven millennia,' he said, 'and still all men and women take pause to behold thee, Mystery.'

Razikale chuckled. 'No wonder,' she agreeably said. 'Mine face is the only thing about me anyone can see clearly. Ferryman,' she said, setting her purple glance upon a still stunned Radonis,' though hath not brought me the gift I asked thee for; I hear that thou hath lost all your elvhen. I guessed my demand would be easier for thee to fill – willt thou defend thine pipe with your life and position too, as I hear thou defended the race punished by slavery?'

'It is being fetched, Augur,' he responded, taking a deep bow.

'Ah, the hope for instant gratification - dashed,' Razikale sighed. 'This age of my awakening doth not begin well. Priestess of the song, what would thy God do, if thus thwarted? Could he summon ice and lightning? Petrify with his gaze? Or is his only power giving maidens dreams?'

Divine Victoria visibly swallowed the very first thing that probably came to her mind, which was likely to have been that the Maker most certainly did not smoke.

'He would probably patient for half a clock's face,' Cassandra answered, with remarkable calm; Razikale huffed in dismay.

'Patient gods,' she muttered. 'Hear that, mine brother?'

Lusacan shrugged. 'This world has fallen far during our sleep, Mystery. They'll learn again,' he soothingly added, and despite the fact that the Watchman's voice carried no threat, Radonis felt a shudder. 'And 'tis, perhaps no better time to learn than now,' he said, 'nor better choice of students at our feet.'

He stood, and waved his fingers – with that single, careless and light gesture, he caused whatever remnants of the veil still about them to warp, taking them…taking them out of space and time, taking them…not into the fade, Radonis realised, protectively trying to step in front of the Divine, yet realising that he could not move. Still, he felt no restraint, no pain and no pressure, he felt as in a dream not of his own, for no matter how he tried to focus, he could not see through the mists Lusacan had conjured, at least not until Razikale appeared before him, a single solid shape so radiant that he could barely make out her features.

He heard Divine Victoria gasp behind him, but oddly, all the fear he'd felt for a Soporati drawn in such magical turmoil vanished; this was no fade walk, he realised – it was merely a shared vision.

'Now truths will be shown thee,' the Augur said. 'Not all. Thou shallt learn what thou must, as we shall deign to teach thee, for too much sudden light is blinding – yet this, what thou shall see is the first truth…'

'First chapter of the true song, priestess,' Lusacan said, taking shape by his sister's side.

Then, all took shape, surreal, resplendent but untouchable – the two humans were still suspended in the vision, and only moved forth to follow the gods.

'Before the might of the seven Magisters Sidereal, the Veil shattered like the flimsiest glass.  
Dream and waking lay before their feet, two paths diverging.'

They felt the familiar words, rather than heard them though both Old Gods had spoken together - still not even this was needed, for the words of the Chant were unfolding before their very eyes. Seven dark shadows drifted upwards, on the wide staircase leading to golden, shimmering walls; both Cassandra and Radonis were close enough to touch them, yet the seven men paid them no heed – upwards, ever upwards they walked, and the vision pulled Archon and Divine on their trail.

'Into the dream they strode, dauntless, for nothing in the realm of gods or man could keep them from their promised prize.' Razikale alone followed.

'This was our design,' Lusacan chillingly whispered.

'The minds of all lay bare before the Seven, and machinations against the sleeping had brought them hence.' They once more spoke together. 'Against the sleeping,' they hissed. 'Not even at our door yet and they dreamed to undo us - by blood and lyrium they raised themselves, inexorably, to the Unreachable City, the presumed heart of all creation.'

'Or so they thought,' Razikale oddly giggled. 'This, too, was our design.'

No sooner had she spoken, that the vision abruptly shifted; no longer wide and marbled steps lay before them, no golden walls, but a forbidding fortress suspended in a void, whose jet black walls radiated an ominous, sickly green light. The seven still ascended, the looks of hunger and ambition upon their features unchanged, as if they were still heading towards gilded gates, as if they still trod upon marble.

'At a touch, the gate swung wide, and the Light parted before them like a curtain, swept aside by nothing. And then,' the dragons said, 'we read their petty hearts and minds for they had truly entered our dream. We knew then, _their_ design.'

'Which was not ours,' Lusacan said, his subdued rage infectious, for Radonis felt it to the very marrow of his bones. 'And _we_ saw the black mark, spreading like a sore upon the gate where mortal hand had lain.'

'Too late, we saw.' Razikale said, in equally infectious sadness. 'Too late we understood what we had wrought; too late, too far we were to stop it, still tied by treachery…'

'Surrounded by vain glory, the Seven stood,' the gods followed with their account, even as the shadows of the Seven glided silently within the jet black walls, 'in the hall of apotheosis, heedless of what festered in the shadows they cast there…'

Radonis and Cassandra were not heedless though, and proving herself braver, the Divine drifted forth of her own accord, on the trail of the Seven – Radonis felt her gliding though him, and as their spiritual projections briefly touched, he felt her fearful disappointment and sadness, but also her determination to _see._ To know…

The dragons needed speak no further – the hall in which they all now stood was dark and stifling; within seven crevices along its circular walls, seven lights glowed dimly. The Magisters Sidereal stopped, and it took a moment to notice that they were not frozen in the same awe that gripped the two humans, but it was merely that the gods had stopped the vision from progressing. Along the walls they strode, Lusacan with heavy steps, Razikale with flowing grace…Five lights they reached for, but not touched.

'The one you called Dumat; his name was Silence.' Lusacan said, his features bathed in dull, grey luminescence.

'The one you called Toth; his name was Fire2,' Razikale whispered, standing before a faintly flickering red light; she drifted on, as did her brother – he came to stand before a vibrant, green flame.

'The one you called Andoral3; her name was Merit.' He said, dryly.

'Urthemiel…' Razikale said, her voice filled with tears; for a moment it looked as if she would actually caress the faded, pinkish light, but her fingers folded but a fraction of an inch short. 'His name was…'

'Beauty,' Radonis whispered, not knowing if his voice could be heard in the dream; the dragon goddess gave no sign of having heard him, yet did not speak the name again.

'I loved him, once,' she said, instead. 'I very much still do.'

It was to Lusacan to speak the last dead name, to a glowing white light. 'The one you called Zazikel4; his name was Rebirth.'

The gods exchanged a glance, and crossed the chamber and each other, passing though the frozen figures of the Seven; Razikale reached for a purple light, and pulled it from its crevice and into her chest.

'You call me Razikale,' she said, smiling. 'My name is Mystery.'

Her brother hesitated before his own blue flame, and when he finally touched it, he allowed it to creep along his arm, and fade within his skin. 'You call me Lusacan. My name is Contemplation.' He tiredly finished, then looked to Razikale, and gave her a faint smile.

'You,' he whispered, in gentle, touching warmth.

'You,' she responded, and once more crossing the room, they embraced, touching their foreheads to one another's. Their touch caused the flow of the vision to resume – as one, the Magisters Sidereal each headed for the flame of his _God_ – there was no trace of surprise or hesitation on their features; at the Archon's side, Divine Victoria pressed her palm to her lips, and the man truly wished that she, at least, would not be forced to watch her faith unravel in such a gruesome manner. She could not look away, though. Neither could he.

'But upon the throne of heaven they did not find the Maker of the World in all his Radiance,' the gods said, once more speaking as one. 'They found,' Lusacan said, alone, 'truths they were unwilling to accept. They found what their most avaricious dreams had readied them to rob.'

'To rob _,'_ they hissed, together – the Seven Magisters Sidereal reached for the flames of their Gods, with wicked, joyful and distorted grins. 'The souls of their Gods, bound by foul treason as they were, defenceless without their glorious bodies, and unprepared for yet more treason. In secret they had bonded with each other, to bind us to them – to take _our_ might into their puny bodies, to tie _us,_ the eternal Gods, to their will. To their impermanence, to the ruin that is your unchanging world – to mortal filth and greed which knows no bounds – no Silence, no Fire, no Merit, no Beauty, no Rebirth, nor Mystery nor the Contemplation that arises from it.'

'We'd stooped so low, but we would fall no further,' Razikale whispered. 'We had to fight, but hope was dim, half the harm done as we'd conceded to their binding, without knowing its true goal; we struck with our last might, and like moths who reach a bonfire, the Seven burned.'

The smell of burning flesh and cloth invaded Radonis lungs, and it was by miracle alone that he did not retch. The torment of the Seven lasted, it lasted…and screams and pleas, and too long delayed oaths of renewed faith melded together, a cacophony of earned pain and despair.

'Please, stop,' he breathed, covering his ears. 'Please, Gods…'

'Now _you_ see, Ferryman,' Razikale chuckled, walking away from her brother. 'We are your Gods. You _are_ only a human in the end.'

'I am,' he pleaded, seeking her too round, purple eyes.

' _We_ are,' Divine Victoria said, adding her plea to his – and wondrously, the Gods exchanged a glance, smiled, and prayers were granted by half, for the screams stopped. The sight of the Magisters' torment, however, followed its set course, though Lusacan and Razikale walked through the bodies of the burnt as the flames still lapped at their flesh, beholding the scene with the same cruel detachment they probably had felt millennia ago.

'We kept them from death for long days, and in great wonder we held the Defilers before us and looked upon them, our long-awaited, trusted saviours, at last ascended to us. We saw only hunger and envy in their hearts, only pride and desire in their eyes.' Razikale spoke.

'We knew, then, that they knew us not.' Lusacan said, stopping aside the Magister engulfed in his blue flame and baring his teeth in feral joy. 'Yet - now they knew us. Now, _you_ know us…'

'Their Gods called to them: from their ancient prisons they sung the song of long awaited freedom. We are no dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts, with blacken'd wings on which deceit takes flight; we are the first light that _the people_ forgot.'

Radonis' heart froze in mid-beat; the bodies of the tormented Magisters vanished from the rounded hall, as sand blown off a marble etching, and, at its very centre, Lusacan and Razikale stood, side by side. As in a dream without end, their features did not change, their glances did not lose expression. Their ears however, their rounded ears stretched; their stature shrunk, yet that was of no import – because the truth, the blinding truth that he could not look away from was that their ears, as they grew long, also grew sharp. As sharp as knife points.

The two spoke no further, but turned to leave, dragging the spirits of the two humans behind them; one more glance at the truth they allowed them before returning them to the unchanging world.

It was the sight of the Elvhen, as they called him, Solas, pressing his hands to the gates of the hall they'd all just left, and making them change into the jet-black fortress walls, then whispering under his breath and causing the ominous green light to rise about it.

'You asked mine brother of what for a vengeance, priestess of the wrong song,' Razikale said, once more returned to her choice beauty of a human form. 'Now you know; it is but the first truth of many.'

* * *

1 Take note

2 Forgewright of Fire, in Tevinter religion

3 Appraiser of Slavery, in Tevinter religion

4 Madman of Chaos, in Tevinter religion

* * *

Hmm, what? The Old Gods are elves? Oh, no-no, no no!

Why, Solas would positively die at knowing that! Morrigan won't though ;)

Abstract and Ivi thank you for reading and commenting,

Cheers,

Abstract


	35. Winging It

_I cannot see the path._

 _Perhaps there is only abyss._

 _Trembling, I step forward,_

 _In darkness enveloped._

 _ **Trials 1, 13, 1-4**_

* * *

Morrigan smiled, her glance set upon Leliana, whose already tiny frame seemed to have shrunk further with every word Cassandra spoke.

'Well,' she uttered, when, at long length, Cassandra came to the end of her bewildering tale, 'now, you do know.'

'And you would have us think that you have known this all along? That Tevinter's Old Gods are The Forgotten Ones of Elvhenan? That they are…' Cassandra asked, clenching her jaws, for the serene happiness on the witch's features was enough to turn her stomach once again.

Morrigan shrugged. 'All along and for certain, no. But after the Well, I knew.'

'And you said…nothing,' Leliana whispered.

'Indeed, for there was no compelling reason to speak of it. There is none now, in truth, other than the sight of what was most precious to you, Nightingale being so abruptly taken from you – mayhaps now you will feel what it is like to have the one thing that you love, the only thing you've ever loved so brutally torn from your very flesh. My only regret is that Lavellan is not here to watch you crumble, too. She'd be relishing the sight, this I know…'

'Did she know of this as well?' Leliana asked, biting her lower lip in anger. 'Was this her plan, the one you would not share?'

Morrigan sighed and rolled her eyes. 'Lavellan had no intention of waking the Old Gods; she might not even realise she has done it, because it would have been impossible if Solas' actions had not coincidentally helped. I swear,' she once more chuckled, 'link by surprising link, I see a chain of fate that binds these two much tighter together even as from each other they try to pull away.'

'The world is coming to an end around us,' Cassandra said, shaking her head in fury, 'and all you do is mock. Are you not of this world? Is your child not…'

'How unfittingly melodramatic of you, _Seeker_ Penthaghast,' Morrigan smirked, gracefully lowering herself into a chair. 'The only thing that is indeed nearing its end is your Chant of Lies and its unworthy domination over all life. The unchanging world itself is in safer, shall we say…talons than it has ever been. The Forgotten Ones will not chance the full removal of the veil – this could well lead to their foes being freed as well; from what you recount of your crossing of paths with them, their vengeance upon Elvhenan of old is done, and they are in no mood to crush ants now.'

'But Solas they _will_ crush,' she neutrally said, 'as they will crush Mythal.' She followed, this time, in obvious cruel satisfaction. 'You should be joyous.'

'And then what, Morrigan?' Cassandra muttered. 'A reborn Ancient Tevinter? Dragon cults soaring?'

'Perhaps even a reborn Elvhenan, if they are so inclined,' the witch responded. 'An age of miracles returns – and yes, lion and hound will grovel and whine before the rising dragons…but I must ask, Seeker, for this too is a sight I would have cherished to behold. How was the look upon the Archon's features, when he was shown that even in their years of glory, even as they crushed helpless, crippled Elvhenan under their mighty heel, they worshipped the slave race? Did he pale? Did he faint?'

Tired of countering, Cassandra let herself fall into a chair as well, and merely shook her head.

'Radonis…' she said, softly, 'is not the man that I imagined. He's not the man that you imagine, witch. And neither are,' she brought herself to say, 'Mystery and Contemplation…Are those even their real names?' she asked. 'You can tell us the truth now. It no longer matters; nothing matters any longer.'

Morrigan bit her lower lip. 'Mystery and Contemplation they called themselves,' she answered, 'when they chose godly seats. I do not see why you would need to know the names the people called them before that. They shall reveal themselves fully, in time, if they are still unwise; if they have something learnt from their mistakes, it is unlikely that they will.'

Cassandra looked her in the eye. 'They did not feel, they do not feel…'

'Evil?' Morrigan queried. 'None said they were, not even Solas thus asserted. They merely lost a short battle in a long war, for the tender sin of being trusting of one they thought a friend; a familiar tale, by now, I should think – yet it is for the victor to make judgements, so indeed, a legend of their evil was spun, and spread, until all memory of them was overcome. What they were, though,' she followed, 'was more eager to directly assert power on the world they saw as below them. Not all exercise of power must be wicked. Nor must it be good. Power, such as they held, knows much nuance.'

She greatly pondered her next words, as if judging the other two were worthy of hearing them.

'The nature of these beings is one of great nuance, too…They were indeed part of _the people_ , once, but they did transcend even immortal Elvhen glory.' Morrigan said, softly. 'This conflict that Solas is still caught in, despite the fact that he earnestly tried to quench it even millennia ago, was sparked by the fact that at the moment of their transcendence, there were many who remembered the names they were called before they made themselves Gods. Many, Mythal and the Evanuris included, who refused to see them as such, because they were, themselves transcended, but would not so easily shed their mortal, if you will, roots.'

'You see how only one of them can shake the foundation of the world,' Morrigan shrugged. 'Imagine the destruction that fourteen of them might have caused, in their clash.'

'And Solas…' Cassandra softly prompted, shaking her head.

'Then, as now, a dreamer far fonder of his dreams than of people made of flesh could finally no longer remain aloof; he had both the the power and the position to take action, and he did. Both sides thought him their ally, not because he supported them in any material way, but because he had never before hindered, thus... His distance from _the people,_ from his people, was however not one borne of indifference or hatred or despise. He simply…'

'Preferred the company of spirits,' Cassandra sighed, and Morrigan nodded.

'Yet now, not even he could remain idle, and he did not believe the Forgotten Ones Gods more than the Evanuris did, so…'

She once more shrugged. 'It did not occur to the great trickster, or Mythal for that matter, that the seed of separation between the weak and the strong had taken root. The Evanuris were already eating of the forbidden fruit, and they too claimed Godhood; more fond of truth than peace, Mythal stood in their way. 'Twas not the power that they feared, but that of the Well, for it preserved memories of when they had not been…Gods, and so…'

'No voices of the Well are needed for you to know the rest; only Lavellan's voice, the one voice that in this entire turmoil you, Nightingale, mistrusted most…Perhaps, after their years of imprisonment, and their very real experience of the fact that a too crowded, ambition laden path to the heavens will very literally destroy both those at the very bottom and those at the top, Mystery and Contemplation choose differently now than they did the first time around; perhaps their long lost names, when they too were unchanging, should remain lost.'

'Yet still, they are not Gods,' Leliana spat. 'They are simply…simply,' she followed, darting out of her own seat, 'elevated mages. Like Fen'Harel, they are…'

'So much god-like in power that they may as well be Gods. In fact, so secure in themselves that they do not even bother to deny that others like them exist, they don't even deny your so-called Maker... Do you forget, _bird of song,_ that you believed that _he_ created the veil? And even with that lie openly thwarted, you still pray to his verse.'

'I know what burns in my heart,' Leliana said, spinning on Morrigan, her hand on her dagger's hilt. 'I know what I have seen, the vision that brought me to the Maker's House.'

Morrigan smiled, cruelty in the condescending kindness of the expression.

'Spend a minute with the Augur of Mystery, and she will give you more visions than the Maker ever did, Leliana.'

'It could still all be a lie, concocted by Tevinter…'

'No, it is truth.' Cassandra said, in great sorrow. 'I saw it, and it was not a vision of glory. It was a vision of a mistake, a terrible mistake, no more pleasing to Radonis than it was to me. They failed, in their quest for freedom; Dumat chose to die first as his was the idea of elevating the Magisters Sidereal. He hoped to give the others a chance to flee, in his death thrashings, to hide and burrow as best they could. Not much,' she whispered, 'not in the way they regard time, but he tried. The Old Gods never intended for the Blights; the Blights were the doing of the Magisters Sidereal's attempts at tricking their own deities, and merging with them – these…these entities defended themselves as best they could, but the bond had been forged already, thus, to the day, the darkspawn seek them…'

'I've no doubt in what I saw. Only the truth of things could be so…pointlessly cruel and deprived of causality,' she whispered. 'Isn't that what we all worship, in the end? Causality?'

'It is still there,' Morrigan said, for the first time sounding kind. 'It is simply not the one you imagined.'

'If what they say is true, however,' Cassandra whispered, 'what happens to us all, now? I doubt either Lusacan or Razikale will wait for Solas to mend the veil before they crush him. The torment of the continent is undeniable…'

'Not all the continent,' Morrigan muttered. 'Under the wings of its dragons, unassailable Minrathous fares fine, or did you not notice? No mages are bursting into flaming abominations, though by the fairy tale of the Chant they should, given how much they deal with the distorted dwellers of the fade, and how much blood they shed to hold their magic. Nor are their people going mad in the streets and villages, because there are no mages hiding in terror of imprisonment.'

'But we are not of Tevinter, Morrigan.' Cassandra said. 'Our homelands will fall victim to…'

'…the lies that you, your worship, forced them to believe.' Morrigan said, again, not cruelly. 'Even with the veil thinned, though, even if Solas does not mend what he broke this time around, a balance will come. You,' she sighed, 'none of you listen to what your betters speak: indeed, the demons have broached first, for they had always sought to descend. Yet in the Fade, there dwell good spirits – of mercy, of fairness, of compassion. A spirit of compassion fought beside you in the year of the Inquisition, he too shaped into human flesh by will alone. A spirit of wisdom fought beside the Hero of Ferelden, Leliana, inhabiting Wynne's shape without re-shaping her. 'Tis not all bad.'

'A balance will come,' Morrigan ended. 'A balance always comes...'

She stood, and glanced inside their forgotten eluvian, her features suddenly tense, for, without influence, the mirror had begun to ripple.

'…tis simply odd how those who declare their faith in good think it so weak, and assume its defeat…' Morrigan dreamily ended. 'Cassandra,' she asked, her voice and glance suddenly sharp. 'Did Radonis finally yield where Pavus and Lavellan went, and what the Inquisitor's plans were?'

'Why does it matter?' Casandra asked. 'It's all out of our hands and in the dragons' talons now.'

Morrigan sucked air between her teeth. 'Not so,' she said, still glancing at the mirror in fascination. 'The dragons are awake, yes, yet it took Solas three years or more, not to mention Mythal's presence to regain his powers; we have no true guarantee that the others can now, immediately, crush him, should Lavellan fail in _her_ plans. Without Lavellan, they might well be crushed.'

'An insight one could only expect from the intended vessel of Mythal,' Lusacan spoke, materialising behind Morrigan; Razikale swiftly followed, and, for all of her bravery thus far, Morrigan gasped and all but retreated through the eluvian. Had it not been for Lusacan's raised fingers, which sealed it shut and dull, she truly might have stepped through.

Terrified and fascinated, Cassandra and Leliana stood. The dragon god was frowning; the goddess was not.

'Voice of the Well, Knower of Names, we greet thee as an equal,' Razikale spoke, smiling kindly.

'And I greet thee, Mystery and Contemplation, never enemies of Wisdom or…or Sorrow,' Morrigan stuttered. 'Companions of Wisdom and Sorrow,' she whispered, sustaining Razikale's glance without bowing, 'I greet thee.'

'Why hath thou not told us that the instrument of our awakening is what is left of the people?' Lusacan asked, of Cassandra.

'I did not think she was…she was not the one to awaken you,' Cassandra said, stepping up to hide Leliana from view. 'Dorian Pavus…'

'He had her aid, and she had his,' Razikale said, turning her head at an awkward, bird like angle. 'She, too, shall be greeted as an equal.'

'But we must greet her soon.' Lusacan said, clenching his teeth. 'She…'

'She's mastered her eluvian.' Morrigan said, speaking fearsome words. Lusacan nodded.

'And she has brought it to the Crossroads already.' He said.

'Solas will find her now,' Razikale spoke. 'We cannot see her,' the goddess followed. 'She's…hidden.'

'Broken from the Fade,' Lusakan said, dryly. 'Yet determined…still if alone she attempts, she might well fail, and that would be one defeat too many. Where is she, Knower of Names? Priestess of the renewed song?'

Morrigan shook her head, and Cassandra took a deep breath.

'She's on Seheron,' Divine Victoria said.

'Seheron,' Leliana chocked out. 'A week's sail.'

Razikale strolled then around Cassandra, and took Leliana's hand in hers. The Nightingale shirked from the touch but she could not resist it; when she no longer pulled away, Razikale kissed her brow, and whispered in her ear.

'A week's sail, yes. Have faith, bird of song. It might be a week's sail.'

'But only half a day's flight,' Morrigan and Lusacan said, at the same time; Morrigan managed a cheeky half grin, and turned to the eluvian once more. 'And we can buy her that, can we not?'

Lusacan chuckled, and waved his fingers once more, bringing the eluvian back to life.

* * *

'Not one, but two eluvians alight at the Crossroads,' Abelas swiftly spoke. 'Within minutes of each other. Solas.'

Solas sighed and shrugged. 'It would appear as you were right, and she did find us before we found her,' he dreamily said. 'And she plays another bait and switch – you see,' he followed turning away from his own gigantic travelling mirror, 'perhaps you were also in some way wrong. She is, perhaps no Elvhen like you, but she might be as Elvhen as I am.'

Abelas breathed out in unrestrained anger. 'You do not understand,' he growled. 'One of the eluvians came alight; the other simply _appeared_.'

This finally caught the Dread Wolf's attention to Abelas' satisfaction. 'Appeared?' Solas said, fully turning about in shock. 'That should be impossible – no eluvian has been created since Arlathan fell. They've merely been awoken. Not even I could casually make one!'

'And it's not only that, Dread Wolf,' Abelas followed. 'They shine from vastly different locations, they appeared at vastly different locations even within the Crossroads, yet, as all eluvians they are sealed to sight. We cannot know what lies behind either unless we pass through them.'

Solas looked away, shaking his head, and visibly slipping to deep thought. 'Let's reason through.' He said, nonetheless swallowing dry. 'The one in Minrathous we knew of. Can Veldrin truly not be the one behind it? It would be a bait and switch greater than those even I managed, but…'

'How can you still _not_ see her, Solas?' Abelas breathed. 'The one you think is Elvhen, the one who bonded with a human of Tevinter – how can you still not see her?'

He saw fury in the Wolf's glittering blue eyes and unwillingly drew back. 'Because she's broken from the Fade, Abelas,' Solas spat. 'Do you think that though all of these years, I did not _wish_ to see her? Do you think it was Tevinter's sky to prevent that? When it could not prevent our freeing of the people? Or do you simply think that I was so ashamed of loving her that I denied myself the only joy _I_ could still have while waiting for the unravelling of the world?'

'You did not wish to see her with her Shem,' Abelas answered, teeth gritted.

'I wished to see her happy, no matter what the path,' Solas answered, with coolly mastered fury. 'I wished to see her dream, even if all she dreamt of was my undoing; I searched for her and could not find her, not because she fled to Minrathous, but because she fled the only realm that I truly master. I am,' he hissed, 'need I remind you, a mortal mage, and no more; I cannot find the sleeper who does not dream in the Fade, and she has not dreamt in the Fade for a very long time. Why else would I have needed mortal eyes upon her, if I had divine powers and could accomplish all?'

'I apologise,' Abelas said. 'I should not have angered you.'

'That is not what you should apologise for,' Solas replied, though it was visible his temper was not stilled. 'You only apologise to Gods for arousing their wrath. You should apologise to me, your friend, for causing willing pain, and wasting time…'

'No,' he sighed, not waiting for Abelas' acknowledgment, 'I cannot see Veldrin, because she is a powerful mage who is preventing me from doing so, and I suspect by which means. Those means are indeed of Tevinter but they were also of Elvhenan once, so I shall be the last to judge her. We have two mirrors,' he said, lowering his glance. 'I can only go through one.'

'I could go through the other,' Abelas offered. 'Enough of us are risen; we have raided the plagued Grey Shem'len. To no avail, but still, our host…'

Solas sorrowfully shook his head. 'If we do that, Abelas, then one of two things happens – you walk into the maws of Tevinter's dragons, and you alone won't best them; even if their magic has not fully returned to them, they still wield mighty forms. The other possibility is that you walk into Veldrin and her _host,_ and you won't best them either. She chose to let you go, I swear to you. If she'd chosen a fight, she'd have won, even then, and she is much stronger now.'

The golden skinned Sentinel of Mythal pondered upon these words. 'Would the outcome be different for you, if you walked through?'

Solas shrugged. 'If either Veldrin or the dragons stand alone, yes, absolutely. The ones best left forgotten know where we are, so if they had awoken at full might they would have simply stormed…'

He gestured towards the mirror behind him, needing no further explanation.

'…while my _vhenan_ ,' he softly continued, speaking the word as if he was no longer afraid of it, 'would not storm me because, I wager, her best asset is Dorian Pavus, perhaps added to Leliana and Cassandra, perhaps, if she stooped so low, to Grand Enchanter Vivienne. All of them humans, hindered by the eluvians. Thus I would think neither side believes it is strong enough alone to face me. If they have all joined, however, there shall be…considerations.' He ended, clenching his hands behind his back.

'But, hm…' Abelas said, adjusting his voice with a light cough. 'If they have joined, what purpose is there to two mirrors? Why would they not simply come through?'

The Dread Wolf laughed, warmly and sincerely. 'Well,' he said, re-mastering himself, 'if personal, dare I say so myself, experience…teaches anything is that you do not face all your enemies at once, and even less so on their own ground. You simply do not walk up to them and have a poetic stand-off…What one does, what _I_ did, was that I divided them, then made them come to me. Which now I cannot do, for it is finally me who has a responsibility to keep the castle gates.'

'Perhaps then we should wait, Solas.' The Sentinel thoughtfully said; Solas shook his head.

'And bring the fight _here?'_ he asked. 'We brought tens of thousands of people here to protect them, not to subject them to a siege.'

'It is daunting, I know, but…'

Solas waved the suggestion away. 'A siege that we might well lose…I've made a lot of painful choices of this sort in the past, Abelas – I will not make this one, not this time. Besides,' he said, looking to his eluvian with an unreadable expression, 'if we wait, if we truly wait, our enemies will find each other and my _considerations_ will have very real implications.'

The Sentinel groaned. 'So we reduce this to a coin toss? Which mirror we walk though, together, to our doom?'

Solas shrugged, thoughtfully scratching at the wolf pelt draped across his chest.

'An educated guess sounds far more optimistic. It will still be a guess,' he conceded, a second later. 'Which one would you go through, if you were me?'

Abelas fidgeted and frowned, and took a long time to answer – even then, it was not the answer Solas expected…nor one that helped their cause in any way.

'You know, I sometimes wish you were a God.' The Sentinel smirked.

'Yes, well,' Solas smirked in return, 'you know as fact that I am not. So, which mirror would you go through, if you were me?'

Abelas sighed. 'The ancient one. You yourself said it would be a grand bait and switch if your _vhenan_ were still behind the one they have in Minrathous; you believe her capable of your feats of victory.'

'Well if Veldrin is there, she's there together with the dragons, so our chances will be greatly diminished.'

'If she is there, together with the dragons, you _alone_ will crush unassailable Minrathous before you die. As they crushed Arlathan,' Abelas said. 'I'll go through the impossible mirror alone, too.'

'I already told you why this is a terrible plan, Abelas. If we separate and we both die, then not even the memory of our memory will survive.'

'You've also told me why the memory shall not survive regardless. Perhaps it should not. It was a flawed tale to begin with; you made the people forget, and now you seek for them to remember only in parts. If our truths are not enough...'

'True,' Solas whispered. 'I shall be to Minrathous…where will you get to? The impossible mirror shines from, where?'

'Seheron,' Abelas answered. 'The place not of our people.'

* * *

Well, well, could we approaching a bit of climax here? Sadly, not the kind of Solas/Vel I would like to see, but...Maybe there's still time? Please?

Lusacan sayeth: 'Hm.'

Thank you for reading and commenting (hint, hint!)

Cheers,

Abstract & IvI


	36. A Clash of Sorrows

_Great heroes beyond counting raised_

 _Oak and iron 'gainst chains of north-men_

 _And walked the lonely worm-roads evermore._

 _Mighty of arm and warmest of heart,_

 _Rendered to dust. Bitter is sorrow,_

 _Ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill._

 _ **Andraste 1:2**_

* * *

Leliana felt the veil warp; its thinned tatters whipped at her, as, she assumed, they whipped at all humans, regardless of whether they had ever encountered the arcane. It was an odd sensation, she considered, and one which, should any remnants of the world as she'd known it survive the present storm, might give all a greater appreciation of what mages went through, on their tight walk between the Fade and the unchanging world.

It was a great _if._

For once in her life, the Nightingale felt nothing; no drive, no will, no purpose. She felt defeat and she felt freedom, in such a way that one hung by her neck as heavy as a mountain, and the other gave her the sensation that she too could fly, and, thus suspended, she did not look away from the portrait of Pavus and Lavellan which hung above the mantelpiece, though she knew that something had come through the mirror behind her.

The other stopped, in turn; only then did she look over her shoulder to meet his glance, yet he too was looking to the portrait…What did _he_ see in it? Leliana wondered. Vel's ears? Her dulled vallaslin? The dragons on her robes? Dorian Pavus' hand on Veldrin's half bared shoulder?

She'd have asked the question, for now, as all the sands of time were draining to an end and the hourglass threatened to turn, only curiosity remained; she didn't ask, however, because judging by the look on Solas' features, he would not have an answer.

'You were _my_ mistake, first and foremost,' she dreamily said. 'You know that, don't you, Solas?'

The elf finally met her stare, and shook his head in unstifled sorrow. 'No, Sister Nightingale,' he softly spoke. 'You,' he whispered, 'all of you…were my mistake.'

He then turned and once more passed through the looking glass.

Perhaps, Leliana thought, he would win. Perhaps he would lose. Still, the one thing that was certain was that regardless of the outcome, the Dread Wolf would carry that portrait with him for however many hours of life he had left.

* * *

The two hosts stood, facing each other – each counting but a few souls, each wielding the strength of armies.

Abelas recognised some of them; indeed, he knew some of them better than he might have liked, and despite the fact that there were things about some of them he had struggled to forget, such as for, instance, the fact that the Tevinter Magister had spoken in his favour at the heart of Mythal's temple. Yes, he'd sought to forget that.

It was far easier to remember the Qunari who then, as now, would have cleaved him in half at a gesture, and the little blonde archer who was so apart from herself that no truth of the people remained in her heart. Along with their memory, Abelas' thoughts unwillingly turned to the moment when he'd first locked glances with Solas and recognised him for what he was – to the words they'd exchanged over the shoulder of the woman Solas had then been following.

 _Elvhen like you?_ Abelas had asked, then.

 _Elvhen like me._ Solas had nodded – and though the words had been spoken plainly and out loud, Veldrin Lavellan had not understood their meaning. She could not have.

Almost a decade before, however, Veldrin, the woman he least wished to remember, had looked him straight in the eyes. Now, though she had indeed grown in strength so much it was palpable and unholy, she simply stood at the forefront of her group, her eyes trained to the ground.

'Abelas,' the Tevinter expressionlessly said, jolting the Sentinel from his memories and into the present; once more, Abelas thought, the human did not act in his own interest.

What Veldrin Lavellan and her Shem should have done to secure their victory over Abelas himself was seal the eluvian that he and his Sentinels had come through, and kill them all – beyond himself, Abelas knew that he would not engage, here. It would be madness to: in steel and magic, Veldrin Lavellan's group dwarfed his, just as Solas had predicted. But now he'd seen it with his own eyes, he'd remembered and counted them; he'd learned that Lavellan and the ones better left forgotten had not joined forces, and that Solas would find them easy pickings, as he probably found the dragons of Minrathous easy pickings.

If Abelas had been in the shoes of the Shem'len Lavellan was bonded with, he'd not have risked that knowledge getting back to Solas. He would have sealed the mirror and scored the only pyric victory he could have – kill all the Sentinels. In coming through the eluvian, Abelas and all who followed him had already shown they were willing to die, for now, more than ever, they were but a droplet in the tidal wave that had been Mythal, in the tidal wave that was Fen'Harel…and yet…

'Abelas,' the Tevinter had repeated, in such sadness that one might have imagined he had stooped to learn elvhen. Lavellan did not shift her glance from the floor; she did not seal the mirror. Her group did not move to attack – the stand-off felt as if it had lasted hours, rather than minutes, and Abelas half lifted his hand to bring it to an end, and order his host back though the eluvian.

It was not to be.

The mirror rippled, and Solas materialised by his side to finish the phrase that the Tevinter Magister had begun.

'Abelas,' Solas said, even as Veldrin Lavellan finally lifted her glowing, crimson glance from the ground; there was a smile upon her features, one that was too gruesome and distorted to behold. 'Abelas,' the Dread Wolf whispered, in the same breath as Dorian Pavus, 'run.'

* * *

'Well, well, well, what _do_ we have here?' Imshael cordially said. 'Don't you look fancy in your god-armour, Solas…Excuse me,' he followed, smirking, 'Dread Wolf it is these days, I understand.'

Solas took a deep breath and clenched his jaws, setting the cold fire of his blue eyes on Dorian.

'What have you done, Tevinter?' he hissed, in disgust.

The demon inside Veldrin's body stepped up in between the Magister and the Wolf, hiding the former from view.

'He's done nothing, fluffy puppy.' Imshael said, smiling. 'But,' he conceded with a shrug of Veldrin's shoulders, 'I see that he is right to like circular conversations – you always assume it _must_ be the Tevinter human doing all things unpalatable. I take great pleasure in letting you know that Magister Pavus has done nothing; just like you, your _vhenan_ did it all…all on her own. Just like you, Dread Wolf. Two major differences, though,' the demon added, raising one hand, with the index and middle finger extended. 'You did not care about what lives you laid to waste on your path; she does. Far more important than that though, she is actually in my good cards. You,' Imshael growled, his voice dropping to a blood curling tone, 'are not. Are you not forgetting to petrify stuff, by the way?'

'Go on,' Imshael enticed. 'You know you want to – Dorian at least always wanted his profile immortalised in marble, I doubt having it immortalised in granite will make much of a difference…'

Solas looked down and took a deep breath; he remained silent.

'Don't lose your nerve now, Dread Wolf,' the demon goaded. 'Veldrin Lavellan certainly didn't – she invited me in, to fight you. She enlisted Tevinter's Archon, and, who-hoo…we both know what else, to fight you. She's not a shy one, her, she truly is a rare and precious spirit, this one; it's not that you were too good for her, it was always that she was too good for you. So why are you not matching her willpower? Why are you not willing all of these,' Imshael said, 'out of existence? Is the choice bearing heavy on you, now that you have to kill those you personally did love or at least respect?'

'Were we to tally up the lives you took while looking the other way, we'd rack up quite the sum,' Imshael merrily said, circling close. 'Why are you counting these? Just because you knew them, once? Go on, go on, you came to kill, so, do it. The only choice you're still to make is whether you will kill them all while looking them in the eyes, or turn around and kill them without looking – the latter is your regular modus operandi, anyway. Choose, master of lies. Choose, while I still let you do so.'

So, Solas chose – he turned his back on all, and closed his eyes. ' _Ar lath ma, vhenan_ ,' he whispered, as he willed them all away, expecting that his own heart would turn to stone along with them. It kept beating though, one tick after another painful tick.

He didn't understand. He turned around.

His heart kept beating because they were all still alive; the magic of his god-like will broke upon a shield which hovered in mid-air between himself and Veldrin. The white light it radiated dissolved his spell, deviating it into nothingness and feeding upon it at the same time; all those who stood behind the woman Solas loved stood tall and breathed at ease, while he suddenly felt at a lack for air, and the veil collapsed about him as it had never done before, heavy and constraining. He could not run into the Fade; the eluvian behind him was dead and dull.

Imshael made Veldrin smile. 'Too late,' he said, using her voice. 'Or maybe I just lied on this one – you really did not have a choice but look them in the eye and count them. Are you counting?'

Solas found that he was, but could not count beyond two – Vel, his Vel, and Dorian Pavus by her side, a flaming focus orb in his hand. He saw the Iron Bull in the distance of the few feet that separated him from Veldrin's group, and there was a nagging absence…

'That's right, you're missing one.' Imshael beamed. 'Where is Sera?'

It was only then that he saw, rather than felt the tip of a sword piercing his chest from behind; he knew that it had missed its mark, but also knew that even if Sera had found his heart, it would have mattered little – he was no immortal, yet his armour was only the veneer of gilded metal; magic and Fade threads kept it together. For one who took in the Fade as others took in breath, it was protection and healing alike, thus a single blow, even to the heart would not have been deadly.

Veldrin could not have known it; Sera, who'd hated him, could not have known it, but she would not have missed. Solas looked down at the bloodied sword tip, clenched his teeth, and took a step forth, slowly slipping himself off the sword's edge. He spun to grip the blade, hoping to take it out of Sera's hands before the weapon's aura, the aura that was pinching at him and must have ripped at her truly harmed her; after all, Sera stood beyond the edges of the barrier that protected the others and…

…the sword that had only caused him such minor inconvenience was hovering in mid-air too, free of Sera's grip as it was free of his chest; he saw the blonde rogue dance on the edges of his vision. The second sword precisely nipped at his cheek, though Sera had barely touched it in her haste to retreat behind the white barrier of the shield.

Sera's breath was ragged but, behind the shield, recovering; Solas's hands, from where he'd wiped the blood off his chest and off his cheek, were streaked crimson.

Veldrin alone could not have known about his armour; Sera would not have missed his heart or his eye – and, despite knowing what their weapons were, despite understanding that whatever he'd learned of their plans had been woefully, painfully wrong, that there was something else at play, here, Solas hesitated before casting.

'Vel would not choose this,' he softly said. His blood began slowly draining back inside his body, yet the healing did nothing to assuage the sorrow, for he knew all too well she had to have chosen this unknown path, and that she'd done it because _he_ had not left her a choice, just as she'd left none for him. He looked up to meet the demon's glance – by the smirk on its features as it took a step forward, outside the barrier's reach, Imshael knew he did not need to speak of choices in his turn.

'If it is any consolation, which _I_ dearly wish it will not be,' the demon said, dryly, 'Veldrin really does hope you will not suffer. Too much,' it ended, with a wide grin.

Red light bathed him from below then, his shadow shifting as an orb of a make he could not recognise came alive somewhere above. The magical lines of Aurelian Titus' power drain diagram stretched out from his feet, as if he had suddenly stepped into a nest of writhing serpents; though the scratch on his cheek was no thicker than a hairline, he could feel it beginning to bleed as if his flesh had been split to the bone – and late, too late, he felt that his blood was not dripping down his cheek, but rather crawling upwards, over his temple, just as the blood of the all but closed wound on his back was slowly creeping under his breastplate towards his shoulder, inexorably pulling away from the completed circle under his feet and towards the dully glowing orb above.

It was enough to jerk Solas from the dream; he could not move, and no waves of dispel could remove the shackles of the magical serpents at his feet, but his armour still held its powers. Within its many strands of the Fade, the wound on his back closed and no new blood flowed. The old one, however, continued to ascend undeterred, seeping between the delicate, overlapping gilded plates, crawling upwards, ever upwards on his neck and then, on the back of his skull in deceitful, disgusting warmth. Both wounds were closed now, but the blood kept moving, and soon, despite his focus, he could feel the two faint trickles uniting and lifting clear of his skin.

He brought his own staff to focus and attacked in turn – glittering, fierce missiles that might otherwise had found aim and rent flesh from bone darted about the chamber, pointlessly attempting to breach the white light barrier of the shield. Solas gritted his teeth and redoubled his efforts, no longer aiming behind Veldrin and her demon, but straight at them; Imshael smiled, crooking the corner of Vel's lips upwards. It extended her hand, actually drawing the attacks towards her and away from all others. The deadly glow worms danced about her, so close to each other that they hid her from view, which was, he thought, a small mercy; he still did not wish want to watch her die.

He no longer felt the blood on skin – even if it had still been there, it would not have mattered, and, for the thousandth time, wished that he could truly reverse time and take all of his thoughts, and words, and deeds back, wished that he too would have been severed from the Fade and died, along with all the other sleepers he'd murdered in the creation of the veil, he wished that with her death, his quest would be over and knew it would not be and…

His eyelids forcefully flew open, and he met Dorian Pavus' stare.

'Fuck you,' the human whispered, between clenched teeth.

'She should not have…' Solas whispered, feeling the heat of his own magic on his face and willing himself to sustain Dorian's glance.

'Opposed ya?' Sera spat, her features so contorted that she, too, looked as if she had been possessed – perhaps she was, but the demon of _her_ rage was familiar and impotent.

'I think you met a different boss than we did, _Solas,'_ Iron Bull said.

'I loved her,' he pointlessly said, shifting his glance to the burning cocoon.

'She loves you very much too,' whatever was stifled within it said; the cocoon blossomed wide in the blink of an eye; as Solas shook his head, to get rid of the impossible vision, all his missiles distanced themselves from Vel's intact figure, no longer under his control, but under hers. Tadpoles in the moss of shore, the fire danced about her fingers and caressed her skin without damaging it, then ran though her hair like the delicate fingers of a long lost lover.

Veldrin too closed her eyes, and, on her command, his own power turned against him as a great tidal wave – the defences he summoned from his armour were misguided, for the attack did not centre on him. Instead, all the energy dryly burrowed itself into the alien magical circle beneath his feet. Once more, too late he realised that he no longer knew her, or any of them; too late, Solas brought about himself a barrier so solid that only other Elvhen, Elvhen like him could breach it.

It shimmered blue, against the red light below and the white light before him. He saw Vel's features as if through a pane of glass beset by heavy rain. She stubbornly remained Vel, and she walked towards his barrier, spreading her fingers upon it and pushing against it gently, with no apparent intent of striking it down; for a heartbeat, the heavy rain cleared, and he could see _her_ eyes, golden and laden with sorrow, before a million cracks within the barrier grew to replace the wash of energies.

'I promised I would follow my path, Solas,' she whispered. 'I did.'

The blood he'd lost, the blood she'd taken from him and he'd thought pointless tugged despairingly at the top of his barrier, a remnant of something the colour of rust threatening to go dry and cling to the bottom of an upturned, clear bowl.

He'd summoned the barrier a literal droplet too late, and though that mistake of his, the droplet rose and rose, and rose again, and met the glowing surface of the orb that had never stopped shining above him. Beneath Veldrin's small fingers, his barrier cracked and crumbled. The circle of snakes he stood in grew bold and crawled under his armour and his skin, its many heads and tongues and scales crept in the fibres of his muscles and so, and so a wolf found his paws in a clenched trap he had not even remotely sensed.

One that he finally grasped he'd not escape, even if he chewed off a limb.

'Don't, vhenan, don't,' he pleaded, as through the many cracks he watched her turn away – she would kill him, he understood it and accepted it, though he still did not truly grasp how… Still, he oddly felt no fear for himself, or even for his plans. No, what he feared for was _her,_ for the guilt she'd shoulder, for the parts of herself that she'd lose, the parts she'd already lost to the demon and the vile spell she was using, those parts she'd never recover…

'Don't do this to yourself, Vel,' Solas said; for the briefest of moments, she looked over her shoulder, through her demon's eyes, then slowly turned away.

'Bull,' Solas heard her whisper.

'My pleasure, boss,' the Qunari answered; his axe came down and shattered the magic Solas held undefeatable for all of his millennia into small, melting shards – Vel barely needed call Sera's name, then.

The blonde rogue darted forth, grabbing the accursed swords in mid-flight. She moved significantly faster after she'd touched them, as if they'd been protecting her from the crushing aura of the altar, and she had no need to stab or go against his armour now. No power that Solas possessed could free him from the circle in which he was standing, nor from the insidious power of the orb above so Sera merely needed dance around him, nipping at every inch of exposed skin, all shallow scratches, none bleeding more than a droplet before they healed.

A droplet from each of was more than enough.

Feeding off him, the Tevinter orb grew resplendent enough to rival the ancient relic Dorian was holding; with each pulse of its red light, Solas felt weaker in an eerie way, for his magic was draining and he felt as if the lines of the Veldrin's circle were slowly growing under his skin and replacing his veins, yet his mind remained clear, as did his vision – he felt no pain, not yet, but the clarity of mind and vision was cruel enough.

Though Veldrin's back was still turned to him, Solas could well see the blade of her Arunlin'holm glinting between her fingers, and, his glance fixed on her movements, he did not notice that Dorian had closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, in a desperate attempt of focussing away from the fact that his wife slowly split her left hand veins open from wrist to elbow.

It was the last heartbeat of clarity, before the pain truly began, and it was unlike anything Solas had ever felt – as soon as Veldrin's darkened blood touched the hungering maghrallen, Sera's menial cuts were no longer of any importance. His blood fought its way to the surface from every pore of his skin, rivulets running out from under his fingernails, his nose and the corners of his eyes, uniting to streams and running upwards. Every fibre of his body was screaming and writhing in agony, leaving him with no strength to do so in turn; through crimson mists, he could only see the burning arch of light that now connected his blood flow to Veldrin's, via the blindingly glowing bridge of the orb – and finally understood, no…felt…what she was doing…knew that the reason why he'd been so easily entrapped was that the magic being used on him was not only blood magic, but also _new_ , terribly new, narrow in its goal and lethally precise in its purpose.

Veldrin was draining not his blood, but his powers, yet not in the way that Morrigan, or any Elvhen might have, for the drain purposefully and wickedly stayed clear of his thoughts and his consciousness. Else, he painstakingly thought, bending over, and feeling as if he'd been flayed alive by acid, Vel would have seen some of his thoughts, she too would have known, felt…

'Stop,' he chocked, leaning on one knee. 'Stop, Veldrin – you could not hold the Mark, you cannot…You'll kill her – you will kill her, not me…Is that what you want?' Solas whispered, looking up at the red eyes of the demon who'd finally turned to face him, and addressing it alone. 'What manner of a parasite are you, that you would kill your host before you kill your prey?' he managed, coughing blood onto his already bloodied hand.

Imshael smiled and flexed Veldrin's arm, to show that she, at least was no longer bleeding; the arch of light that closed over the maghrallen was weaving her veins blue and resplendent under her skin. The iridescent light now rose over her shoulder, under her robes and over her left cheek, even growing into the white of her left eye…And still, it smiled, then sighed theatrically.

'Eh,' it amusedly said. 'An immortal parasite? I thought we knew each other better than that.' The demon said, looking down at Solas and shaking his head. 'But…No, I am not killing her – Veldrin herself would prefer to die with you – and might I say, how touching I find your concern for her _now_ , after you did try to make statues out of them all – ironically,' he added, 'the very people who have bend over backwards to keep her alive and safe.'

'From you.' Imshael said, sweetly. 'From me. Well, from herself, mostly…Speaking of which, Mae, sweetness. If you'd be so kind; I think Vel's had more fun here than she intended. Silly sentimental bint,' he affectionately cooed; Veldrin's left eye was now fully blue. 'It's as if she truly expected that I would make it quick. Or painless.'

Solas did not hear the last phrase, but then he scarcely needed to. Nor did he see Maevaris Tilani advance, or Radonis' orb rising out from between her fingers; all he did see was the blue draining from Veldrin's left eye, as the line of his blood, still flowing upwards though the maghrallen, then passing though her body, finally channelled into the third of the foci – it drained, it all drained, and for a moment, a heartbeat, her eyes were golden, they were her eyes, and he felt joy.

After that, he felt only pain, saw only blood, and he finally screamed.

* * *

Good evening - and it did have to come to this. Other than employing a titan to throw Nevarra at Solas' head, I saw no other way to defeat him, so hopefully this well prepared one makes sense. Plus, we shan't be killing him, though I have to say he won't be having very much fun.

Thank you for reading and commenting,

Cheers,

Abstract


	37. Homecoming

_Tel'enfenim, da'len_

 _Irassal ma ghilas_

 _Ma garas mir renan_

 _Ara ma'athlan vhenas_

 _Never fear, little one,_

 _Wherever you shall go._

 _Follow my voice-_

 _I will call you home._

 _ **Dalish Lullaby – Third Verse**_

* * *

It lasted.

It lasted a long time before there was no more sound, and before Dorian dared lower his own focus – it had, perhaps no longer been needed for the past hour, not since Solas had collapsed to both knees, and not since the silence was broken by no more than pained gasps.

The Magister lowered his arm, and let the eye of the long forgotten dragon God rest between his fingers. It weighed nothing, and nothing cataclysmic happened when he let it drop and it rolled to the side, somewhere, clinking on arcane bevels and grooves.

The unnatural upwards rainfall of Solas' blood towards the maghrallen had not slowed, yet the arch of magical power that linked him, Veldrin, and Radonis' focus orb had fully waned. It had shrunk to a trickle, a small stream running along a one mighty riverbed desiccated by millennia of draughts…and then, even that stream had dried to illusive, disparate flecks, before seeping into nothingness. Only the blood kept flowing, and though he had kept focus, Dorian well understood that no human or Elvhen body could possibly hold as much blood as Veldrin had drawn from Solas; horses, bears and giants could not possibly have held so much blood, yet…while there still was blood, there was no more power.

It was done.

He swallowed dry, and walked away from the hushed whispers of the others. He spared Solas a glance, and saw the truth of his mortality, for, despite the fact that his body in itself might have held an extraordinary make-up, despite the fact that his armour must have held magic of its own, he was dying, this man…this man who'd created the veil, the last living God, and he would die for no other reason other than plain and simple loss of blood; that too would last, however – it would last longer than Dorian felt he could watch.

'Vel,' Dorian said, reaching for his wife's right arm and not being afraid to touch it; the demon turned its red eyes on him, but he was not afraid of that, either. 'Veldrin.' Dorian repeated, grasping her wrist with more strength than his rational mind, the part of him that still somehow recalled she was a quarter of his size and that he could grasp her wrist between his thumb and middle finger, remembered necessary.

She turned her glance to him, her golden, red-rimmed pupils letting him know that Imshael was falling out of full control. Her features were remarkably void, though tears were streaming down her cheeks and knotting under her chin; all Dorian's anger, awe and tension melted, and his grip on her wrist loosened. Instead, he placed his arm around her shoulder, and gently turned her towards him.

'It's over,' she whispered. Dorian bit his lower lip and nodded.

'So end it,' he whispered in return. 'Let it end, Amata.'

'I wish I could,' Veldrin said, slipping her fingers amid his; Radonis' orb remained suspended in mid-air, shy blue flames replacing the previous crimson ones and licking at its surface. The elven woman looked its way, and it gracefully floated to the side, casting all others as dancing, frail shadows upon the dark canvass of the tower's wall.

'Is _it_ not letting you…' the Magister softly began – the red ring around her pupils grew, for a mere second. Veldrin closed her eyes and gritted her teeth; when she reopened them, the red was little more than a thread's width.

'It is that too,' Veldrin said, pointedly looking away from Solas. 'They…it…don't…want him dead.'

 _They, they…who are they,_ Dorian thought to ask; her grip on his hand became painful enough to rend the question from his mind.

'Let Sera do it, then,' the man said. 'Let the Bull…'

Veldrin softly shook her head. 'It's not that, Amatus – it's the armour. He should be dead thrice now, and there is nothing left of him _but_ his life, but the armour is not letting him…die. I will defeat it eventually, Dorian, but not…not in time.'

Veldrin briefly squeezed his fingers, before gently pushing his arm off her shoulders – she turned away from all of her companions, and towards her defeated prisoner. She was not staggering, but her steps were small, and Dorian wondered whether he should have followed, but swiftly dismissed the notion.

Perhaps, he thought, instinctively reaching his arm out to stop the Bull from advancing, the only thing that was more intimate than love was death, and Vel…

'She deserves at least this,' he said, not looking over his shoulder at Bull. 'They both do.'

'Hmph,' the Iron Bull said, not taking his hand off his axe's hilt. 'Do we even know if it's Veldrin…'

He did not have time to finish the phrase – a small, blue barrier surrounded the bloodthirsty maghrallen, cutting it off from its prisoner. The blood that still linked it to Solas to it hung eerily in mid air for a second longer, then slowly began drifting backwards inside his body, as Veldrin slowly kneeled by his side.

'Yes,' Dorian said, softly. 'We know it's her.'

 _And so does he,_ the Magister thought, watching Solas painstakingly straighten to one knee and weakly reach for Veldrin's face.

'Ar abelas,' she whispered, reaching for his pale cheek in turn.

He smiled though the pain. 'You should be, vhenan,' he whispered. 'You defeated me…before changing my mind.'

'I was arrogant to ever imagine I could.' Vel said.

'I'd never fault a dreamer for a dream,' Solas gently replied.

His hand drifted from her cheek, over the crook of her neck, then lower, to her shoulder, then lower still over her upper arm and to her elbow. Their fingers finally entwined, he decisively guided both their hands behind her back, towards her herb knife – a small, rounded, deceivingly innocent blade…one with a rounded tip…

'Not your throat,' Veldrin whispered. 'I can't…'

'Not my throat,' he eerily agreed. 'My heart,' Solas said, once more in control of both of their hands; even as they kneeled facing each other, even though he had no magic left, with his mere presence, with his gaze alone, he was the one who towered over her and the entire scene from very far above.

Still in control. Still in possession of Veldrin.

She weakly tried to shake away his grasp, but he gripped her fingers with both hands; her hands were weak, thus the inevitable drift of the blade towards the centre of his chest was merely slowed, not stopped, invisible sprockets of a merciless mechanism slowly, finally, falling in place.

'The armour,' Veldrin whimpered; Solas nodded, and pressed both of their hands atop the gilded, Fade forged metal; the overlapping plates drew aside, pushing the wolf pelt off his shoulder and to the cold floor. They folded back even further, then, sliding past each other, and weaving themselves together, until the entire enchanted chest piece was no more than a shoulder guard, perched eerily upon the shoulder where the wolf pelt had been draped, mere seconds before.

'Here,' he said, when the only thing separating the rounded edge of her knife from his skin was his medallion, and the linen shirt beneath it. 'My heart is here,' he whispered. 'Take it; it was only ever yours.' Solas said, and, with his hands still around hers, Vel pressed the knife in – to Dorian's eye, it still felt as if though Solas was the one who made the choices, the one who had the power. As if, although she was the one holding the knife and willing it to its target, Solas was still the one claiming the kill.

Then, something snapped – a crack of energy, a whiff of…something, something he could not place passed over him and through him; at his side, the Bull drifted forth an inch, in sign that he had felt it too, and feared the same thing that Dorian himself did: that this was some form of final trick on Solas' behalf, that he would somehow rise and turn the knife, and that he'd be too slow to stop it, because he'd stubbornly and foolishly believed that Solas had truly loved Vel…He tried to focus, but his mind was void – his magic would not come, his body would not move; all he could do was look towards the two elves and…

Fear was replaced by overwhelming shock, for he'd expected to see some glint in Solas' dull eyes, some form of triumph on his features, but he saw nothing of the sort; the expressions on both elves' faces perfectly mirrored each other's, and his own. There was no triumph.

It was pure, unadulterated terror.

'Don't let them have me, _vhenan_ ,' Solas urgently breathed – she pressed and pressed and the knife, yet it seemed as if she could not shatter the flimsy barrier of the dead bone medallion…

'No, no, no, no…' Veldrin screamed, and Dorian closed his eyes, and chose to imagine that the tremendous noise that suddenly overpowered her scream was his imagination of the blunt tip of Vel's herb knife – the knife Dorian thought he remembered she sometimes used to butter her toast, this, the least of all weapons they held...

He imagined that the roaring thunder he was now hearing was that little, overused and underrated knife breaking through the wolf jaw that Solas wore about his neck, then through the linen of his shirt, then through the elvhen male's skin, then, through his sternum…

He imagined that the sudden hurricane of debris showering him from above, and below and from all sides was merely the protesting scream of a world that had finally lost its last wonder.

It was not.

The Bull pointlessly tugged at him for what seemed an eternity, and it _was_ an eternity before he realised that the flying pieces of rock were not in his imagination – that they were very real, that though they were still sixty feet down a shaft, the domed ceiling above them had been simply torn off, and that the rocks were falling as well as flying upwards because the batting of a gigantic dragon's wings, as it hovered above, created a massive updraft.

 _Of course, we are down in a tube, so the dragon's flight is sucking out all the air and creating a vacuum_ , Dorian thought. _Of course._

It was simplistic and rather stupid, but it was a mere question of physics – apples fell down, the seas followed the moons, sustaining flight required an updraft.

The only thing that did defy the implacable laws of physics was the fact that Vel was frozen, and her little knife was barely scratching at Solas' medallion, though she looked as she'd been leaning her entire weight on it, and sweating and weeping with the effort of doing so. The knife was blunt, he thought, but not _that_ blunt, and Vel was not that light, in the end of all things.

The other great question upon the laws of physics and matter was the actual presence of the dragon. That, and the fact that instead of howling with pleasure and charging at it, the Bull said 'Well, this is most definitely _not_ a good day.'

It was thus that Dorian learned how it felt to be trapped in the time warp spell that he had so arduously mastered; the only creature aside Veldrin and Solas who could not move was himself. The Bull was tugging at him still, and he was distantly thinking that if the Qunari warrior pulled harder, he would literally tear his arm from its shoulder joint.

The dragon itself landed on the edges of the suddenly exposed, circular sky; Ath Velanis shook along with the entirety of Seheron, and all corridors to the chamber crumbled, even before the dragon began to crawl down along the widened shaft. It fanned out a wing, unwinding it as if it had been a masterfully and gracefully designed staircase – still carrying herself with as much grace a reanimated suit of armour might have held, Cassandra Penthaghast rushed down, skipping and sliding, frost in her hair and an unhealthy redness in her cheeks.

'No, no, no,' Veldrin loudly begged of the monster inside herself. 'Please, no, please – we made a bargain so that I could kill him, so that I could spare him _this_ – please.'

'Undying annoyance,' the dragon roared, its eyes fixed on Vel's still kneeling, frozen form, yet clearly seeing though it. 'Forbidden even to the few! Blight of too many to count – begone! Offer no treaties that have not been approved by your Gods!'

'You are no Gods,' Solas and the spirit of choice who called himself Imshael hissed, in perfect synchronicity.

A mist of a woman, with a mist of a smile drifted through the Iron Bull, finally making his efforts at getting Dorian to budge cease; she was there and not there, he could feel her and he could not, but her purple eyes held all manners of promise, and her presence, the overwhelming, stifling presence kept Dorian trapped for a crucial minute longer.

This mist of the mystery kneeled beside Solas, and beheld the knife stalled at the bone medallion with benevolent curiosity; she brushed the shoulder guard off Solas' shoulder with a gesture careless enough to pass for gentle.

'You will suffer,' the woman whom Dorian did not yet know as Razikale said, kindly; she rested her shoulder against Solas' shoulder in the complicit manner of an old friend inviting another friend for a stroll she knew he did not want to take. 'And whatever your pains will be…I assure you, we will invent many, there will be no torment greater than knowing that she did all in her power to save you.'

'And that thou did all in thine power to thwart her,' the sapphire dragon said, his voice inside Dorian, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

'Ours was not a lonely prison,' the woman followed. 'We shall make sure that yours is not a lonely one, either – but while you imprisoned us, together, friends and lovers and sharers of minds, you and her shall not be sharing cage, Solas,' she whispered. 'You'll have a small one. The entire world will be her cage. And every day that your cage is not lonely, you'll know that no matter how far she goes, or what she does, she'll never escape hers.'

'Not without fully crushing what is left of you, and becoming what she is. One of _us,'_ she whispered.

'And who, pray tell, are you?' Dorian shouted, stepping up, despite the fact that Cassandra was trying to bar his path. He side stepped her, with celerity he did not know he had, only to face a short, dark haired man with cat like eyes, another one he did not know; the dragon's wing had fallen limp against the wall but he'd not noticed. 'Who are you? What are you?'

But he knew, he knew, he painfully knew…Because Vel had tried to tell him, and the demon had not let her _ruin the surprise…_ He knew. They'd not started a Blight.

It was much worse.

'You already know the answer,' the unknown woman simply said, echoing his thoughts. 'You simply fear it, though you've no reason to.'

'Dorian of the Pavus line,' the man said, looking him in the eyes. 'Bringer of Dawn, The One Who Woke the Sleepers, we greet thee as an equal.'

'…aaand, see, I told you you'd have the most amazing surprise - so there we go,' Imshael cackled, reading his thoughts. 'Blights, demon armies…Pfeh. Nothing compared to _this_ – congratulations, little boy, you've succeeded where even Corypheus failed, you've brought back the Imperium, in all its ancient glory…'

'Did we not tell you to be gone?' the woman with the purple eyes queried; in the entire madness Solas whimpered, and Vel remained steadfast, her red eyes still shedding tears, her hands still pushing at the knife.

'That _is_ unfair, given how I delivered him to you, oh freaking Gods of nothing,' Imshael muttered, not bothering to use Vel's voice anymore.

The purple eyed elven woman shook her head, in minor irritation – she leaned over, placed her hand on Veldrin's forehead, and simply said: 'Leave the bodies of your Gods to the use for which they were intended.'

'She is no God,' Ishmael protested. 'And you are not a God, and he,' it added, in a strangled breath, twisting the knife at Solas' medallion only to scratch it further, 'certainly doesn't think he is one, so by what right…'

'Only those without power request _rights,'_ the woman said, closing her eyes. 'Those with actual power take them. Be gone – he's ours, now.'

Veldrin shook, for a second; an image of her was then projected outside her body, in red, glittering dust; the form breathed out an outraged puff of even smaller, glittering red dust, then, it was gone, just as the woman commanded.

'Kill him now, Vel,' Dorian barked, issuing a command to his wife for the first and last time. 'You're free, kill him…'

'Please,' Veldrin begged, pushing and pushing the knife, and accomplishing nothing. 'Please.'

Defeat came in a form that none had envisioned – it was Cassandra to grab Veldrin from behind and pull her away from what followed, tossing her out of the way of her own blade as if she were made of straw; had the blade completed its swing, Solas' head would have cleanly rolled. As she swung, Dorian cast a fireball the size of a castle at Solas. Gritting his teeth against the spell's fading heat, the Bull charged forward with a roar, and arrows hissed; another weaker fire spell followed, then ice rose, and Dorian cast again, in his turn, yet... The fire cleared only for long enough to reveal Sera's melted arrowheads and the fact that the Divine was incredulously looking down at the hilt of her sword, which was now missing a blade and looked rather akin to a fully melted candle.

They had, all as one, tried to kill Solas, and all as one they had failed; he was unscathed, and the woman who sat by his side smiled, shaking her head.

'He's ours now,' she gently repeated, and none had time to reply.

Through the open eluvian, armoured soldiers poured; behind them, once assured of his safety, Magister Cassius followed, looking about with feral satisfaction – his expression changed to one of utter disgust at the sight of the still living Veldrin.

The man with the cat-like eyes unexpectedly smirked.

'Too bad we can nay exorcise that one of whatever evil he is possessed,' Lusacan said, rolling his eyes.

'He serves, to our displeasure,' Razikale replied, standing from Solas's side as the human soldiers stepped in, hiding him from view. Some of them broke ranks, though, and tried to turn to Veldrin, but Razikale was in their way before they could truly make full stride – the sight of her by his wife's side should have made Dorian feel renewed and heightened fear; it did not, and for a moment, he thought he was too numb to feel anything anymore.

Still, it was not that: he did not fear, because the woman with the purple eyes was in his mind and telling him – forcing him – not to. For what was even odder, the enforced calm only affected his feelings, not his thoughts, for he could still rationalise that if anyone or anything present in the chamber had solid reason to kill Veldrin, it was her.

It was _them_ – because whomever had learned how to kill a God, would remember how to kill others.

'No,' he weakly whispered; Razikale looked up to him, with nought but curiosity in her eyes.

'Of course not,' Lusacan spoke, in his sister's stead. 'We've nay harmful intent towards her…'

Vel winced, and tried to sit up – she was almost too weak to, but Razikale's hand helped steady her. 'Restorer of Truth, Saviour of the People, we greet you as an equal,' the dragon goddess whispered.

'Restorer of the Truth,' Vel whispered, in return. 'What truth is there…'

'The one you've always held in thine heart, and Solas could not grasp until this hour,' Lusacan said, dryly. 'The truth that the very last of the people are, and always will be, as strong as the first.'

Beyond them, in a place that Dorian sought to block from his own sight and hearing, the armoured soldiers were doing their best to make Solas' new reality clear; when, after many kicks and punches he finally fell to the floor, they whipped him, and Dorian counted the lashes in his mind.

Vel looked down at her hands, and the wolf's jaw that rested between her fingers; she must have torn it from around his neck when Cassandra had thrown her aside. She wasn't crying; in the wide, open world that had become her cage, there was no reason to do so.

Without the demon, both victorious and crushingly defeated, she'd returned to what she had always been. Dorian's practical little sprite.

* * *

Did we lose or win here? I cannot tell...

But at least Solas is not dead, and Vel is no longer possessed. That could be good news, right?

...meh, OK. When have you ever known anything Abstract does to be good news?

Thank you for reading and commenting,

Cheers,

Abstract


	38. Immortal

_The sky grew dark. And the ground began to tremble as if in mortal dread._

 _The crowd before the gates, both Tevinter and faithful, fell silent._

 _The heavens wept, and yet no rain could extinguish the flame_

 _Which was now a funeral pyre. Wind swept across the city_

 _Like a terrible hand in rage. And the Tevinters who witnessed this_

 _Said: Teuly, the Gods are angered._

* * *

 _You have destroyed the world to save a misbegotten child._

Veldrin turned the phrase over and over in her mind; it was the first thing that Leliana had said to her. Also, the last, for though she'd not departed from Minrathous, the Nightingale had spoken not a word further, to Veldrin, or Cassandra, or anyone else. She'd left the Pavus mansion, and disappeared to someplace unknown in the bowels of the unassailable city.

 _Perhaps,_ Veldrin considered, with awkward, cool distance, _she will kill herself._

It did not really matter, though; one glance at Leliana had been enough for Veldrin to know that she had come though on her silent promise – she had, indeed, found the one thing the Nightingale loved, and destroyed it, taking no pleasure in doing so. Whether Leliana could survive her loss or not, it was solely her problem; Veldrin's business with her was utterly concluded – she suspected the reciprocal was not true, but…

That hardly mattered, either.

 _What can she possibly do to me now?_ Veldrin wondered. _Kill me?_

She humourlessly chuckled to herself.

It was far too late for _that_. If immortality somehow implied a lack of fear of dying, Veldrin had become immortal, because she was, in many ways, already dead; she'd died two weeks before, on Seheron – it was just odd that her heart kept beating, her body kept moving and everyone else still spoke to her as if she'd still been alive.

Despite the fact that their actions on Seheron had added one more nightmare to a world already besieged, Minrathous had hailed them as heroes upon their return, which was perhaps, not strange, given that they truly had given the Imperium its long awaited restoration – or at least partially so, and those who still grieved or hungered for the parts that would forever remain lost were either powerless or too wise to speak up. Both, maybe.

The other side of immortality, Vel considered, glancing to the side at the renewed heraldic of House Pavus – she'd have to put the finishing touches on it, before her official swearing in as Magistra, on the next day - was actually discovering how much one had left to do _after_ one's soul was dead. What had it been that Solas had said, upon what she now thought of as her first death of many?

 _Let the pain sharpen your will to a blade's edge…_

She hadn't been able to do it then, because it had not been Corypheus to cause her pain; with Solas, now, it came remarkably easy: she suffered because of him, and for him at the same time, and the crisp pain made her vision surprisingly crisp and clear, in turn. She had not wanted that clarity. Her pact with Imshael had been that he could have her body, once his revenge on Solas was complete, and Solas was dead. If it had ever come to completion, her consciousness, her will, her dreams, her loves and hatreds would scatter in the vastness of the demon, and her soul would be as dead as it was now.

Veldrin wondered if anyone would have noticed that. Dorian might have.

 _No_ , she corrected, feeling the love that she bore her husband, her brother, and match and half soul who'd accidentally been born to a different race, as searing pain, _he would have._

And then, he would have killed her body, as he would have killed any other abomination; he would have been angry, he would have been aggrieved, he would have drunk himself into a stupor for a month or a year, but then he would have recovered, understood her sacrifice, and remembered her, and then moved on. Perhaps, he would even have re-learned to be happy – because, if there was one person in the world who deserved that, it was him. Because he was, she thought…Dorian.

'Alright, Amata,' he'd said, a week and a day after their return to Minrathous; he'd pulled the curtains aside, and she'd all but screamed at the merry sunlight, because it was three in the afternoon, and it was still too early, she was hung over in a godly manner, and she'd not been able to touch him or even look him in the eyes for the duration of her stupor. Someone, she'd then thought, had invented drunken stupors for a…

'…fucking reason,' she'd growled.

'Clearly not aesthetic ones, Vel, you look like a mummy in the process of being rehydrated. Not flattering.'

'You're doing this because you hate me,' she'd plaintively uttered.

'No, I am doing this because you've made no progress on our new house emblem, and, being the one endowed with taste and creativity in what regards the visual arts, I did feel a moral compulsion to do so. The problem I am having is that I don't know how many antlers a halla actually has, so I'm not sure what I should tell the artist. He's growing very, very impatient.'

She'd stood up in bed, then, though the room kept spinning, because, before that moment, she thought that she had killed him too, with the Old Gods' return. If there was anyone who hated the Ancient Imperium, it was Dorian, and she'd unwittingly caused him to restore it…She found she still could not face him.

'Halla have two antlers, seven branches each,' she'd mechanically muttered, collapsing back and turning about to hide her face in the pillow, in vain hopes of shutting out the light of day and smothering herself. 'One set of seven for the Forgotten Ones and one set of seven for the…'

'…Evanuris,' Dorian had nodded. 'Alright, I was off by two branches, no true disaster. The artist will be mad, but he does luscious mad, thus…'

'Why are you doing this to me, Dorian?' she'd whimpered.

'Because I think our new house crest should have something Dalish on it,' he'd said. 'Please don't puke in bed. I'm also doing this to you,' he added, in a colder tone, 'because I stood in for you at our triumph, and I did not think much of Solas being dragged through the streets in chains, so I am now collecting my petty vengeance.'

'Your vengeance is not petty, Amatus,' Veldrin had said, forcing herself up, the light in him, the light of the window behind him… 'I've lied to you about so many things, and I have made you breathe life into your nightmare…'

Dorian had gazed at her though narrowed eyes, then unexpectedly pulled her close and kissed her cold and clammy forehead.

'They are not giving up Arlathan,' he'd whispered in her ear; it had taken a century to register, and then another century for her to articulate the two syllables needed for 'who' – which was a pointless syllable onto itself, she knew exactly _who_ \- and 'why'. The _why_ she did not get.

A millennium, then, for her to clasp the duvet in her fingers. In precise timing, Dorian's hands covered hers.

'I know what they are,' he whispered, 'and, given that, they must know where Solas has put all of the elvhen,' the Magister had gently clarified. 'It's obvious to me that they do - and they will not tell the Magisterium where that is. Abelas,' he followed, rubbing her palms with his thumbs, 'was bright enough to see that Solas was losing, so he…'

She had breathed in air and life, into a body that hosted a dead soul.

'…so he killed off their access to wherever it is, via the Eluvians,' she had said, suddenly sobered. 'So, unless someone, Anuris1 or Daren'thal2, or Solas gives an actual point on the map…'

'…human armies will search and search in forbidding jungles, dying to mosquitoes in their thousands, precisely when no human nation had thousands of men to waste.'

That, she had registered in a second.

 _No human nation would come for Arlathan because no human nation could afford to._ _Yet._

'They are not what we imagined, Vel,' Dorian had gently said, making the cause of his return to a lighter mood clear. 'Whatever we have awakened here, it's not the Ancient Imperium. Quite to the contrary, I think.'

'Cassius must be livid,' she had said, cracking a smile. 'Does he understand _what_ they are? I mean…'

'That they are actually Elvhen?' Dorian had chuckled. 'No, I don't think he does, yet – Radonis knows it, Cassandra knows it, you and I know it…But they are treating that knowledge wisely, else I believe Cassius' senatorial fraction would throw themselves off a bridge, like lemmings. Not that it would not be entertaining, or much of a loss.'

The man's smile had faded to a thoughtful expression. 'I think that they are also beyond their revenge on the Elvhen people as a whole.'

She'd nodded, lowering her glance. 'They have Solas. They have no need for vengeance…'

'On all others, yes…' he had nodded, in turn. 'How do you know their names?'

'I didn't, before the Forbidden One,' she'd yielded. 'He knew their names, and told them to me, because, I think, naming them by their past names – their mortal names - would cause us all to dance. We should just call them Lusacan.' She had decisively said, and Dorian had nodded. 'Razikale.'

'Contemplation and Mystery,' Dorian had agreed. 'Let them be known as that – between the two of us, we can keep a secret. We have kept many before, we'll keep this one. They already call you Lady Patience in the streets, you know – and,' he'd added, before she could throw up, in earnest, 'it is three in the afternoon, and you have slept enough. The people, _your_ people need you, and I think _you_ have a fighting chance; don't be like Solas and take a three millennia long nap.'

She placed Solas' medallion on the windowsill before her, and contemplated it; it was old and dull, and now crisscrossed by the edge of a knife that had been not allowed to pierce it. There was a soft knock on the door – Veldrin looked towards the unfinished emblem of House Pavus, and told the person knocking to fuck off, in just those words.

Morrigan ignored her less than friendly greeting, proceeding to enter and Veldrin sighed from the bottom of her heart.

'I thought you would have already evaporated to parts unknown, Morrigan,' Veldrin said.

'I shall, in but a moment,' Morrigan replied, sitting without invitation. 'I have a few now rather obsolete Grey Wardens to visit. They won't enjoy it, I can promise you that, Veldrin.'

'You call me Lavellan,' Veldrin neutrally noted. 'You _always_ call me Lavellan.'

'I call people what they think they should be called; if Dorian was here I'd call him Dorian, too, for he is no longer Pavus. I call you Veldrin because you are no longer Lavellan – you've both left your respective tribes and become _people..._ In any event,' the witch picked up, 'I've come to say my farewells. I did not extend greetings on the way in, so I did not wish you to think that I truly have no manners.'

'Acknowledged,' the elf said.

'I have also come to thank you,' the witch added, with true warmth in her voice.

'For destroying the world?' Veldrin humourlessly laughed.

'For saving my son.' Morrigan sternly corrected. 'And, even if there was destruction to speak of here, 'twas not you who caused it. Remember that, Veldrin,' she added, with odd kindness.

The elf tiredly leaned on the windowsill. 'If there were destruction to speak of…' she sadly echoed. 'The veil is half removed; from Rivain to the Dales, the world is drowning in chaos and madness.'

Morrigan shrugged. 'That shall pass. There have been entire ages before the veil.'

'Not for mankind,' Veldrin whispered, and Morrigan shrugged once more, in pointed indifference.

'Those meant to survive will.' the witch said. 'Some of those not meant to survive will, too, because you gave them the chance to do so.'

The elf lowered her glance and shook her head. 'One could almost think you are pleased.'

'Indeed, displeased I would not call myself,' Morrigan thoughtfully uttered. 'You are too good and forgiving a person, Veldrin; Mythal's vallaslin truthfully does not suit you – you should have listened to your Keeper and taken the writing of Sylaise.'

'In southern Thaedas,' she followed, 'there are wide spread old wives' tales of how to free a child of magic; in some places, the Chantry condones them, openly. Do you know how they say that can be done?' Morrigan queried, her voice suddenly hard. 'The child is to be put to sleep via a tincture of felandaris, then held under water until their breath is almost gone… and well, if their breath is more than _almost_ gone, then they are surely and permanently free of magic's curse, are they not?'

Veldrin shuddered, but Morrigan followed her account. 'Babes do not manifest magic; think of the manner of a human being who does that to their own six-year-old child. If such a person had been brought before you while on the Inquisition's throne you sat, what would you have done?'

The elf needed not answer; her gritted teeth were telling enough, and the witch shrugged once more. 'So, why pity them now? Mankind has gone for far too long without reaping what they sowed – they've hounded, imprisoned, tortured and destroyed all that they did not understand. What Solas has half done is only half of what they deserve, and not a tear I'll shed.'

'You are Mythal's daughter,' Veldrin neutrally said.

Morrigan stood. 'Her creature, perhaps. 'Tis good for all manners of vermin that you are not. Farewell, Restorer of Truths,' she said, with a kind smile. 'I shall not forget what you have done for me and my Kieran. If ever you should need me…'

She let the words drift, and headed for the door – Veldrin found herself wistfully looking on her trail.

'Morrigan,' she whispered, in such a low tone that, even to her own ears, it sounded as if she had not wished the witch to hear her. She nonetheless did, and turned.

'So soon?' she quipped; Veldrin ignored her irony.

'How long does it take…' she began asking, her courage drained in mid-sentence. Morrigan frowned. 'How long does it take for one of _them_ to die? To naturally…'

'I am truly sorry,' Morrigan said, both her kindness and her sorrow heartfelt. 'Even without their powers…'

'Years?' Veldrin pressed. 'Decades?'

'Centuries,' Morrigan softly made reply. 'Ar abelas, da'len,' she said; Vel nodded, and let her depart in silence. There was nothing else to be said, and no tears came even after the door quietly closed behind the dark-haired woman.

Vel briefly closed her eyes – when she reopened them, she did not look to Solas' medallion, but to the still unfinished design of the house crest, then sighed, and once more thought that Dorian must have hated her, just a tad.

She had not wished to make a fuss with the bloody thing, but both Dorian and Mae had been adamant that given that she was the first Elvhen Magister in Tevinter history, a fuss was positively required; Vel had then pointed that it was unfair for Dorian to alter his ancient House's insignia – perhaps, she'd said, she should have just made her own.

Mae had smirked. 'No, honey, that won't do at all,' she'd said, arching both eyebrows as if Vel had said the most ridiculous thing in the world. 'You need to stay under the Pavus banner, so that when Dorian dies, you have two seats.'

'Well, now,' Dorian had muttered. 'You do not have to put it quite _that_ abruptly.'

'How else would I put it?' Mae had shrugged.

'Everything can be phrased nicely – like say,' the man had testily replied, 'when Dorian resigns his seat in Magisterium to become Archon, you'll have two seats. When Mae dies, you'll have three,' he'd huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

'Meh,' Vel had sighed. 'And who would I fill them with? Gladius and his posse of drooling lackeys?'

'Maker forbid,' Dorian had shuddered, and neither woman cared to correct his miswording. 'They'd vote with Cassius even if the sky came crushing down and Razikale was sleeping with them all.'

'That is a sexist and unwarranted remark!' Maevaris had all but shrieked.

'Even if _I_ was sleeping with all of them,' Dorian had sighed, theatrically rolling his eyes. 'It _was_ a metaphor. You both know them, they will not budge; they must be suffering from some sort of mental ailment that future healers will find a name for3. Also, Vel, I see what you're doing and you're not getting out of it – if I let you design your own crest, you'll just do the Dalish flags you had hanging all over Skyhold.'

'What was wrong with my banners?' Vel had muttered; her husband had regaled her with the same look he always did when he thought she had just said something positively preposterous.

'Garish brown-green on a grey background? You need ask?' he had said.

' _Too_ Elvhen, too fast, sweetness,' Mae had added, making the point that Dorian was desperately trying to avoid; he'd furiously frowned, to let Mae know that she had just re-inserted gloom into an already difficult conversation he was attempting to keep light.

She loved him for it. But Maevaris was right; Vel had bitten her lower lip, and said as much, out loud.

'I am not an ankle biting upstart,' the elf had said, in a voice even she found alien. 'I am a Pavus who _happens_ to be an elf.'

Dorian had bitten his lower lip too, but nodded.

'Anything more than that, doll, and you will lose at least half of what we have gained,' Maevaris had nodded, in her turn. 'We have Radonis, we have the…the dragons,' she'd struggled to say, 'but we also have an entire continent who now has better reason than ever to fear and hate elves, not to mention a comprehensively broken veil we still need to somehow address. You are,' the Magistra had followed, caressing Vel's shoulder, 'the one who has lost most in this ordeal; I've hated and feared every minute of it, but I came out triumphant in some sense. The Lucerni have gained forty seats already, and I am negotiating for a further twenty six. You are entitled to not align with the Lucerni, of course; independent seats exist…'

'Mae,' Vel had said, shaking her head – for an eerie moment, it had looked as if Maevaris feared Veldrin would not align with her, and that had caused a pang of pain in a numbed heart. 'Of course I am Lucerni. You went to hell and back for me…'

'…because, in some strange way, I trusted you to be really good at what you professed you are good at, which is killing Gods. You need to trust _me_ now,' Maevaris had said, kindly but implacably. 'I am extremely good at _this_. We will gain more if we walk slowly than if we dash forth, now – if you get your own crest, if we leap…'

'…we may find that we land on nothing,' Veldrin had nodded.

'Personal power is not enough in politics, doll. Especially not in Tevinter, no matter how you've rocked its foundations. Have faith in me, Vel. You are,' Mae had said, sternly, 'the better mage, without doubt. But, both I and Dorian are better humans and _Vints_ than you are, especially since you're neither. A human or a…'

'Vint,' Vel had said, dryly.

'It sounds better coming from me than it will sound when Cassius' side of the Senate stands to heckle you.'

'They would not dare,' Dorian had snarled.

'If she is under the Pavus banner, they'll be even less daring,' Mae had said.

And thus, it had come to this: her vetting of the Pavus House crest - and there was, if she was sincere with herself, nothing she could fault.

It came on a charcoal back background, with the stylised, cracked marble and ivy beset initial of House Pavus on the foreground. The halla horns were embroidered in spider web, thin, silken threads, plainly visible but not blatantly preeminent, behind it. The two ascending dragons, on the other hand, were done in striking silver thread, tails and necks together, bodies elegantly embracing the edges of the crest…the only thing missing was a credo, and while she knew all too well that her husband had hoped she would spend the day buried in the library, trying to find the fitting words, and not thinking…not thinking of…

 _Solas._

In this, at long last Dorian had failed; her soul might have been dead, but her mind was not, and she was not yet blind – at least not while seeing herself through the eyes of others. She once more turned to the window, and passed her fingers over the scratched bone, wondering, not for the first time, if she should have refused the Magisterial seat – she saw herself through the eyes of her Keeper: Clan Lavellan had not been hostile to humans, but they had still been murdered for lands that had lawfully belonged to them, even as the entire continent worshipped _her_ as the Herald of Andraste.

All of that power, and she had not even been able to save her own family; what was a Magisterial seat, one in hundreds, compared to that?

She saw herself through the ghostly eyes of the Emerald Knights – they too had had power, of sorts, but the human promises at Halam'shiral4 had not saved the elves of the Dales from the Exalted Marches, simply because the humans had wanted to take their word back…Of how little political representation had served the Elvhen, even when it had been granted or earned…

And then, only then, her fingers gripping Solas' medallion so tightly that its sharp edges cut into her palm, she thought of _his_ Arlathan, of the hopes of all those who'd have trusted _him,_ of all the hopes she had crushed…But at least, there, she did not have to wonder too much – she knew what _they_ would see, because it was what Abelas saw, and what Solas would – the same thing he'd seen when they had elevated Briala: an elf who'd risen to a seat by stepping on the bones of her kin, and bought it with the blood of their very last God.

She fiercely gritted her teeth.

'No,' Veldrin growled to herself, which such anger that any other hearing her might have frozen in fright. 'No.'

This train of thought was why the Dalish had been hiding under their aravels for centuries, why city elves had been burying themselves in their alienages – and, her thoughts hissed, where had their non-engagement with humans led them? Certainly nowhere, nowhere…They'd only become weaker and poorer and fewer; oh yes, in Orlais they thought that Briala was fucking the woman who had purged three alienages in one night, but they did not see that it was Briala who stood between them and more purges. They did not know, or did not care to acknowledge that painful Tevinter wisdom of the fact that the one who was not at the table was most definitely on the menu, and Elvhen across the continent had been on the menu for generations because they had refused to sit at the table with those who'd betrayed them.

Honourable, indeed – the Dalish congratulated themselves on their moral high ground at each Arlathaven. They should have been counting themselves instead, and see how each year, their numbers decreased by a few dozens, and how many clan names disappeared every decade…

 _Too proud of ourselves and the void, false history of our past to realise that we are taking ourselves into extinction, even without the humans' gleeful assistance…Why could you, of all people not see that, vhenan…_ she thought, her mind going to a place she dearly wished not to visit.

Time, Veldrin thought, only ever flowed onward, and not even the Elvhen could reverse that rule. Not even the Gods themselves could, for the more one fixated on an enemy's flaws, the more oblivious one became to one's own – and this, this held truth for countries and empires, for elvhen and humans, for snake and spider and butterfly alike.

 _And,_ Veldrin thought, _I'd rather live as the traitor who saved the people, than as the hero who destroyed them. Again._

She once more lay the medallion on the windowsill, and turned around, neither thinking, nor feeling; she pulled the little chord that summoned someone _nice._ A frightened human maid rapped on her door – she struggled to smile.

'Summon Magister Pavus,' Veldrin therefore dryly ordered. There was no point in saying 'please' or putting kindness in her voice; she _was_ the master now, not a grasping ankle biter. She was a Pavus who happened to be an elf.

'What shall I tell the master the lady wishes to see him for?' the woman stuttered; Veldrin distantly wondered whether the slave's terror was caused by the fact that she'd grown horns since last she'd seen herself in the mirror.

'Tell him I've picked our words.' Veldrin said; the slave nodded in desperate fright, and sought to make herself scarce as fast as she possibly could. She was not fast enough.

'And it is _Magistra_ Pavus,' Veldrin curtly said. 'Remember that, Shem.'

Her spoken Tevene might not have been great, but she read it and wrote it extremely well. Above all, she understood it very well in writing.

 _Quibus amor Dei est, iuvenes moriuntur_.

The ones who the Gods love die young.

Only, they didn't – they lived, long minutes and hours and days, fighting questions in mid-sleep and nightmares while awake, they outlived pain and loss and they lived long, long, long…

They lived centuries.

 _Quibus amor Dei est, nunc moriuntur-5_ were far more fitting words.

Those beloved to the Gods never die.

Though, Veldrin thought, they might well wish they did.

* * *

1 Lusacan

2 Razikale

3 Stockholm Syndrome :P

4 Literally, Place of the Promise

5 The ones whom the gods love never die.

* * *

Life goes on.

Thank you for reading.

Cheers, Abstract and IvI


	39. Of humans who don't shed their tail

_When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me_  
 _And the taste of blood fills my mouth, then_  
 _In the pounding of my heart_  
 _I hear the glory of creation._

 ** _Trials 7._**

* * *

And so, the world of Thaedas once more breathed at ease, waiting for the echoes of the battle on Seheron to die out, and for the healing to begin. The light of the Maker's hope still shone in Southern hearts, for most had not yet heard that blackened dragon wings had once more risen to blot it.

Across the land, the Chantry proclaimed that the Herald had performed another miracle in Andraste's name, and few of the smaller amid the Maker's houses even acknowledged the fact that it was not quite true – those Chantries who did, lied out loud and fervently prayed in hushed whispers. In the end of all things, the ordinary folk knew nothing of the tensions that had caused the Inquisition to dissolve, and had no reason to learn that their living hero had bent knee before the Archon of Tevinter, and sworn undying loyalty to the Imperium, all of its Southern Provinces, and its True Eternal Gods.

All that they needed to know was that the threat had been vanquished, and all would be well; the Chantry held the diminishing numbers of demon attacks as proof of their words. The veil, they said, would mend in time, and the lingering ailment suffered by humans would eventually vanish too. The common folk also did not know that the eagerly awaited words of reprieve spread by the kindly sisters had not been written by the Divine, nor that the Chantry in Val Royaux had, in fact, issued no communication whatsoever. Desperate hope stifled the curiosity of the many, and life limped ahead.

Those who knew the truth held their hearts in their teeth.

The fact that nothing had changed in the consistency of the veil had been confirmed and reconfirmed by all Mage Circles. As if further proof of the fact that the cataclysm had not ended, but merely taken a mocking pause had been needed, the correspondence between Vivienne de Fer and Grand Enchanter Fiona continued at a furious pace. Her Radiance, Empress Celene Valmont and Queen Anora Therein of Ferelden met twice, in great secrecy; the city of Kirkwall finally acknowledged correspondence from Starkheaven, and even the beleaguered Qun offered the continent, bar Tevinter, secret terms of peace generous enough to put the Llawellyn accords to shame.

None of it mattered, though, and the few knew it.

The veil was irremediably shattered, and, even worse, under the wide wings of its dragons, unassailable Minrathous fared fine. In fact, the shadow of the Imperium was now looming larger across Theadas than it had done in entire ages - the clay-legged behemoth had regained its footing precisely at a time when none of the nations in the South could mount the most minor war effort without disclosing their comforting public lies, so, faced with the prospect of rioting and rioting and an invasion, the few in the South held their breath, and braced for an attack.

Perhaps, Celene and Anora agreed, the people would naturally rally when the attack came. Perhaps Tevinter's dragons could be dismissed as unholy summons, evidence of a Blight – perhaps…perhaps letters to Archon Clodius Radonis were in order _now_. Perhaps, despite everything, the Maker was still watching over his children.

Perhaps something else was, too, but…

'Better the enemy you know,' Radonis said, smiling to Divine Victoria with earnest warmth. 'You must not grudge them too much, your worship – fearing Tevinter is a second nature, now they have better reason to fear Tevinter than ever, thus…'

Cassandra shook her head, and let herself fall upon the settee in Radonis' study from such a height that the delicate piece of furniture emitted a plaintive squeak, and the cat that had been previously slumbering upon it arched its back and hissed in exaggerated protest.

'Apologies,' the Divine sighed – more to the animal than to the Archon himself; the cat appeared less than convinced by the sincerity of the sentiment, but half-heartedly accepted it, and scrambled to curl on Cassandra's lap. It was odd, the Divine thought, awkwardly petting the creature, how much kinship she'd come to feel with this man, the last man on the continent she'd ever imagined she would even come to respect, let alone like…Still, the awakening of the dragons, and all that had come to pass since had offered Cassandra insights she truly had not wished to gain; not into Tevinter, its Archon or even its dragons, but sadly, into her own flock.

Even as the Chantries across Theadas sang Veldrin's praises, behind closed doors, the southern monarchs called her a traitor, and Cassandra suspected that much the same was being said about her in the higher echelons of the clergy. Her permanence in Minrathous when the land was in turmoil was simply seen as another indication of the fact that she, too, had deserted to the enemy, and the only reason there was no discussion of a replacement yet was the fact that the Chantry could ill-afford to show inner dissent.

The fact that increasingly strongly worded letters from the southern courts had not convinced the Divine to either miraculously summon Andraste or cause the dragons to vanish – or preferably, both – had caused Cassandra to become as frequentable as a carrier of the bubonic pestilence might have been.

'I am starting to understand how Veldrin felt all those years ago, when none believed her,' Cassandra said, with a deep exhalation.

Radonis smiled, sadly. 'Oh, your worship,' he chuckled, offering her a small goblet of wine, 'they do believe us, it is a question of not being able to process what they do believe. Or,' he added, filling his own cup, and sitting down behind his desk, 'a simple question of political calculation – a poor one, but…'

'I cannot blame them,' he said. 'If I were them, I would not know how to process the situation, either, and believing that this all,' Radonis followed, raising his cup to symbolically indicate the unhinged world around them, 'is some sort of perverted ruse of the _Malefica Imperio_ is far easier than accepting ten ages of unifying religion being proven false.'

'Even if this all is far from over,' Cassandra whispered, staring into her cup. 'Even though the shattered veil will continue doing its work, and…If I may, your grace…' she began to ask, meeting the Archon's glance. The man smiled, and nodded his accord, and still, the Divine hesitated for a second longer. 'How come Tevinter…' she softly said, searching for her courage as well as for her words, 'how come Tevinter is not suffering as the rest of the continent? Why…'

Radonis bit his lower lip. 'I do not outright know, your worship. I can, of course, offer some educated guesses, if you will be so kind as to not repeat them outside this room.'

'Why not?' Cassandra frowned.

'They will bring comfort to our now common _friends_ in the South, which I would not grudge; however, I fear they also will inspire some desperation induced courage, which would amount to little, in the end, but which I, personally, would find…unpleasant.'

It was his turn to hesitate a moment. 'The South sees only its own plight, your worship,' he followed, his voice even and controlled, and yet, undeniably honest. 'I do not think you could understand ours, even if you tried, because of…hm, shall we say, cultural differences?'

Cassandra shook her head in confusion. 'Your dragons?' she queried.

'Far more important than our dragons, Divine Victoria,' the Archon said, his lips thinning to an eerie, unpleasant smile. 'Our slaves.'

'Oh,' the woman said, feeling genuinely taken aback; she'd gotten so accustomed to this man being courteous, and even kind, that the despicable Tevinter habit of depriving people of their freedom had completely slipped her mind.

'Indeed,' Radonis nodded. 'I believe,' he said, leaning back in his chair and spinning the wine in his cup, 'that the reason the effects of the torn veil are not the same in Tevinter as they are in the South is because the presence of Mystery and Contemplation empowers hidden altars and relics, altars and relics not even we have full knowledge of. It is in these lands that our war on Elvhenan started; it is hence here that the Old Gods might have put up defences against Elvhen magic. That is why, dragons aside, your kings in the South are foolish to fear an invasion – in the absence of those protections, even under the wings of our dragons, what affects their soldiers will sooner or later come to affect our human soldiers as well as our human slaves, and we do not count enough to take both Orlais and Ferelden, as weakened as they might be.'

'In addition,' the man followed, 'you Southerners do not understand the Imperium's dire dependency on its elves…I doubt even we understood it, before all this, yet, in thorough honesty, their labour was the basis of our economy, such as it is, and the backbone of our military logistics. The Imperium cannot start a war because we cannot afford one, and because our armies are in total shambles.'

'And you think that if Orlais, Ferelden and Nevarra realised this, they'd chance…' the Divine incredulously chuckled.

'I think that learning that by simply stepping into the Imperium's borders would strengthen their own troop might make the Southern nations unnecessarily bold, yes; we are in no position to invade, but making this statement publicly…'

He sighed.

'They mistrust us at least as much as we mistrust them,' the Archon matter-of-factly said, 'and I do not see that changing anytime soon, your worship…And that is despite the fact that we do have a very serious and undeniable common problem.'

Cassandra smirked. 'Perhaps, your grace, but it is a problem that the Imperium can outlive.'

'Can we?' Radonis bitterly asked; he took a sip of his drink, and stood to gaze thoughtfully out the window. 'I think…' he slowly spoke, 'that all this _agitation_ is causing us all to have a very dangerous blind spot. Do believe that waking the Old Gods was our intention?'

'No, though I am likely the only person in the South who truly believes that,' the Divine said, with no hesitation. 'Nonetheless, they _are_ here.'

'Precisely,' Radonis answered. 'And we did not call to them out of faith; still, through the weakened veil, they heard us.'

He gripped the windowsill with both hands. 'Now imagine what must be happening to the Elvhen in Arlathan, who have just lost their sole protector…I do not know about you, your worship, but I would be praying with quite some fervour.'

'Me too,' Cassandra admitted, drinking her cup to the bottom, then standing to refill it and joining Radonis by the window. She unwillingly looked to the too bright sky, and neither needed to speak their minds out loud, for each knew what the other was thinking – if a simple spell channelled through an artefact had been enough to return Lusacan and Razikale, then the desperate prayers of thousands…

'Our world was not ready for even one of them; now, there are three…two, still…' Cassandra whispered. 'What might happen if…'

'It would certainly put our other territorial disputes into some perspective,' the Archon pensively agreed. 'My concern, your worship, is that it will be a matter of when, and not if; Mystery and Contemplation might frighten the continent, but I am less ascertained they can face seven of their own kind.'

The Divine nodded. 'And to top that off,' she said, 'Mystery and Contemplation do have some form of attachment to humans. The others likely share Solas' view of all of us...The veil needs to be mended. Have you had communication from the Southern Circles?'

'Do you expect I did?' the Archon outright laughed.

'Then should you not…' the Divine stubbornly began – her words were met with a stern glance and a decisive shake of the head.

'Your worship,' Radonis replied, in all seriousness, 'the ruler of the continent's only magical powerhouse does not offer first bow to a menial assembly of mages who imprison themselves of their own volition, and are afraid of their own powers. Nor,' he said, in a very cold tone, 'am I about to accept the ambassadorial accreditation of Celene Valmont's head spy and pillow warmer, when Orlais does not yet accept an honorary Tevinter ambassador, unless it is Dorian Pavus, whom I cannot spare. It is sufficient that I continue to suffer Arl Teagan.'

'I may not be hostile, Divine Victoria,' the Archon said, 'but I am not humble, either. Goodwill cannot be simply extended, when no reciprocation exists.'

'Someone needs to take a first step, your grace.' Cassandra sighed.

'Quite so,' Radonis agreed, 'but the only representation the Southern monarchs, Nevarra included, have chosen to saddle me with are both hostile and far beneath me.'

She bitterly scoffed. 'And yet, here you are, speaking to the head of an institution that has practically become void of meaning. I am even unsure why you still call me by my title…'

The Archon softened his glance. 'Firstly, I am speaking to a woman who continues to be the head of an organisation that spans the length and width of the continent, and is, at least in theory, in possession of a large, independent military force.'

'As if,' Cassandra laughed.

'Even if they lost faith in you, your institution still holds their lyrium leash,' Radonis cynically reminded.

'I oft times do not find your pragmatism overly endearing, you know,' the woman said; he merely shrugged.

'No one has ever accused me of being a wide-eyed idealist, your worship.' He said, grinning. 'It is also that I believe the only way in which we can reinforce some of the rotten bridges with the South is if _you_ were nominated as head of the Tevinter Chantry as well.'

Cassandra gawked, in what she was assured was a terribly disgraceful manner – she had a feeling Radonis did not much care.

'Since the Old Gods have appeared, the Black Divine seems to be slightly, shall we say, catatonic.' Radonis said, as if the proposition had been the most natural thing in the world.

The woman still stared at him as she might have stared at Razikale, when the goddess who sometimes embodied as a dragon made one of her unpredictable appearances out of thin air.

'Is there even going to be a Northern Chantry?' she asked, in awe. 'I mean, I had assumed…'

Radonis gave her another indecisive shrug, and an amazingly innocent smile.

'As an institution of religion, I won't lie, it's in its death throes. Unlike your Southern flock, the Imperium has actually seen the dragons. However, to my great confessed amazement, the Lord Watcher does not seem to mind its presence, and the Augur…'

'…is the Augur,' Cassandra completed, in a sigh. 'I am unsure she minds _anything_ …'

'Point is,' the Archon followed, 'neither seems inclined to burn it down, momentarily, thus I see no reason why it should remain headless. Uniting the Chantries would be a grand political gesture, and it will be a great boon to your reputation.'

The woman rolled her eyes. 'You know, your grace, just as you've never been accused of being innocent, I think this is the first time anyone has even attempted to accuse me of being capable of being a politician.'

He awkwardly touched her shoulder with the back of his folded fingers. 'Life makes politicians of us all, Cassandra. Or at least of those of us who survive thirty,' he conceded, making her chuckle sadly.

'I will not make light of your faith by insisting, your worship.' The Archon said, reverting to polite address. 'Nor shall I try to disguise my pragmatic intent – I need to…we need to keep our lands together, or at least not baring swords at each other until the common danger has passed. Veldrin Pavus is a praiseworthy woman, but after her swearing in as a Magister, her reputation in the South will never be restored, no matter what miracles she performs on their behalf…You are the only person in authority there that I trust to understand that there is no glory in extinction, and the only one I can help.'

'Besides,' Radonis thoughtfully followed, 'even without the impending danger we are in, this is a new state of the world that does not erase the pains of the old one. The poor will still need alms; all will still need comfort, and you are still best placed to lead the Chantry in providing those.'

'Without the Maiden's shield…' Cassandra whispered, shaking her head.

'I do not think you need to do away with it just _now_ ,' the man earnestly replied.

She bitterly chuckled. 'And you suggest that I keep preaching the Chant's verse, although I, myself, find it hard to pray to it?'

He seriously gazed at her. 'The Chant itself has served as a political tool for many centuries now, Divine Victoria; you will not be the one to sully it, for it has been sullied already. Both our Chantries have expulsed the Canticle of Shartan and pronounced it heretical – us, because it encouraged slaves to rebel; you, because Orlais coveted the Dales. Let us, then, glance at our true selves in the mirror. The Exalted Marches of the Dales had nothing to do with the Dalish refusing to accept the Maker's truth…'

'Some part of it…' the woman stubbornly began; he chuckled, making her frown.

'Truly,' the Archon said, in undisguised irony. 'Why has the Chantry never marched on the Avvar, then? They tend to put your missionaries' heads on pikes far more often than the elves ever did. Look at yourself in the mirror, Divine Victoria,' he repeated, gently but firmly. 'You know the truth well enough: there have been no Exalted Marches on the Avvar because no one wants the icy hells and watery graves they inhabit. That is all.'

Cassandra looked away, wishing to find words to refute his, but knowing there were none.

'The Southern Chantry has purged the Canticle of Hessarian. We have purged the Canticle of Silence…' Radonis dreamily followed. 'Us mortals have long made decisions on which part of the Holy Writ served us best – as long as the changes and the benefits they bring are clear, alterations of the Chant need not cause seismic shifts…'

'…while a religious earthquake is the last thing the continent needs, right now,' Divine Victoria said, wistfully glancing at the bottom of her empty goblet. 'And, in this case, the benefit of the Augur not deciding to file her talons on Andraste's statue in Denerim, should she not find the smoking herbs to her liking, should be blindingly clear.'

The man apologetically shrugged.

'Maker's breath,' Cassandra sighed. 'Have you anything stronger to drink?'

Radonis laughed. 'Not here, sadly. The temptation is too great; these days feel like perpetual Satinalia…Were you planning to drink yourself into accepting my offer, or refusing it?' he asked, grinning.

'I was planning to drink myself into forgetting I am considering it,' she said, smiling a little. 'And to think…You do realise,' Cassandra said, holding out her cup for a refill, 'that if _you_ name me head of your Chantry, we will accomplish nothing, don't you?'

'I won't do it,' the Archon replied. 'The Black Divine will resign on grounds of ill health, and nominate you as his successor. We will have the necessary debates in Magisterium, it will be a mighty, perhaps even bloody squabble, you will be insulted in more ways than you imagine possible, but your nomination will pass with minimum margin. I might even protest it in writing,' he seriously warned – the words did not erase Cassandra's smile; she turned away from Radonis and pensively stared at the peacefully breathing statues of the two dragons.

'I…' Cassandra softly began, 'I apologise for earlier. You are taking the first step. I only pray to whatever Gods there are…or,' she said, drawing a deep breath, 'to whatever human wisdom exists, that the Southern monarchs will see it. It is all so…veiled.'

'They will see it,' Radonis quietly responded, biting his lower lip, and refilling his own cup. 'It will not blind them to my self interest in the manoeuvre, but it is the best offer they can get, under the circumstances…'

'You see, your worship,' he pensively added, 'I reason that the first truth that the Southern monarchs will have to swallow, perhaps undigested, is the fact that there are no overt villains here, and that none of us truly know what to do. If I dare thus assert myself,' he chuckled, with an ironic undertone, 'I am the most experienced of all the continent's rulers, in dealing with impending chaos – experience in guiding a relatively strong vessel over some rough water will not best serve if that same ship is leaking from all its joints.'

'For better or worse,' Radonis said, 'all three of the major Southern nations have been relatively steady ships…'

'If we discount the Orlesian civil war and the Ferelden dynastic unrest after the last Blight,' Cassandra quipped, with irony she was only now discovering she possessed; the Archon smiled wide, but shook his head.

'Those are blips, your worships. Despite them, both Orlais and Ferelden remain hereditary monarchies with reasonably steady economies, a Valmont and a Therein still on their thrones. True tragedy and turmoil strike a state not when it loses its head; the tragedy of a state is losing its spine – that opaque layer or actual, functioning bureaucracy that keeps it moving along. As long as the Council of Heralds and the Landsmeet are still in place, it does not really matter if a Valmont is replaced by a du Chalons, say.'

'Hm,' the Divine muttered. 'I agree with you, to an extent, but the head does dictate the direction in which a body moves – the Valmont against the du Chalons dispute might have had very real consequences.'

'True, the Orlesians under Grand Duke Gaspard may have started up another hissy fit with Ferelden,' Radonis admitted, with a shrug. 'The point I think you are missing, your worship, is that both countries would have kept moving. This is not true for Tevinter.'

'When an Archon goes, the Magisterium stays in place,' Cassandra reminded; this time, Radonis laughed heartily.

'Perhaps,' he said, 'but with the departure of an Archon, Tevinter _always_ loses its spine. The institutions stay in place in name, of course, but each new Archon has to reward their power base or buy out their enemies out somehow – thus, bureaucratic positions become political appointments, prizes and bribes. Not even the best intentioned of men can escape this, thus even if one recognises that a certain man was diligent and capable in say, administration of the mines along the Hundred Pillars, that man will unfailingly be replaced by the third cousin of some Altus who could not be immediately made Magister. The previous administrator may even have to thank their lucky stars that they did not lose their head with the position...'

'And so,' he sighed, 'from top to bottom, merit becomes less important than whose side one was on, in an election, and of which House they are. If good work is never rewarded, why would one do good work? Assuming one is even capable of it, of course…I know this happens everywhere, yet the extent to which it happens in Tevinter is abominable, each time. We are a nation incapable of moving forth because the very basic sprockets of administration change each time power shifts, and can't decide in which direction to spin.'

'You speak not very kindly of your countrymen,' the Divine said, with a little frown.

'I'm merely being honest with what they are and who _I_ am,' the man shrugged, 'and while all this may sound dismal, I think the fact that I have led this monstrously leaking ship for almost thirty years now, and it has not yet sunk, may make my advice worth heeding.'

'And still, what advice can one truly give?' Cassandra whispered. 'We are, all, now on a leaking ship, surrounded by rough waters, without a compass, and with a crew that might mutiny to boot.'

He winked. 'Well, your worship,' Radonis said, 'the first and most important thing is that the crew does not mutiny, and how we shall prevent that is by reminding all that a seemingly sturdy frame distracts almost everyone from a blank canvass.'

'How so?' the woman frowned.

'All of our peoples expect us to show them a future,' he answered, 'while we don't even have an inkling of what that future will look like; if we admit as much, they will not follow, so, we will not. Thus, we shall build a sturdy enough and ornate enough frame for this blank canvass of a future to convince all that we know what the painting will contain.'

'Some people even like blank canvasses and empty pages, you know,' Radonis softly ended. 'They can imagine whatever they wish upon them…'

'But the frame _must_ be real,' the Divine warned.

'I have no intention of making it otherwise.' He said. 'I promised you that I shall not forget Thaedas on the night of Lusacan's awakening, and I am keeping my word. There is, however, no way around the fact that the reborn Imperium is part of that frame, and that if we survive the present storm, the South of Thaedas will see touches of the canvass that they may not like. _May,'_ he chuckled. 'Changes they certainly will not like.'

The woman nodded, in sad acceptance. 'You intend, then, to…regain your _Southern Provinces_? Because if it is so, your grace, I cannot, in good conscience…'

To her surprise, Radonis shook his head. 'Ironically,' he said, 'all that has happened since the night we first met has not altered my original plans one iota. Renewed openness between the Imperium and the rest of Thaedas will have led to the same place. I am not a man keen on banners and borders, your worship. I still think that exposure to Tevinter culture would have led to changes in the South, and in the end of all things, whether we call Orlais our province, or the Orlesian Empire, history might have led precisely to where it is now leading.'

'The South will never accept slavery,' the Divine fiercely said; Radonis smiled, thinly.

'Your faith in human nature is truly heartening,' he answered, with no trace of mockery in his voice. 'I could tell you that serfdom _is_ already slavery by another name, but I shall not – I'll merely ask you this: if you were offered an apple for one pierced copper, or an apple for free, which would you take? And could you swear, hand on heart, that all would choose as you might?'

'Humans are not apples, your grace,' the woman said, with a deepening frown. 'Nor…nor are elves apples,' she added, as an afterthought – the delay between the pronouncements made Radonis smile impishly, and Cassandra felt herself blushing.

It was true, she thought, feeling ashamed of herself. Humans came first; for all that had happened, elves were still an afterthought.

'Mutual knowledge inevitably provokes change,' the Archon spoke, not pressing the subject. 'The only difference between the night you arrived in Minrathous and this day is that now, change can come in two ways – peacefully, or by way of blood and fire. By supporting you, I am, indeed, extending a hand in peace.'

'I am truly unsure the South will see it thus,' the Divine said. 'Do not misread me, I think it is a grand gesture, but it would be far, far more obvious as an overture if you actually accepted the South's diplomats…What?' she queried, when the man arched an incredulous eyebrow. 'I see your advice as sound, though I do not like it, so I am offering you some advice of my own. Empress Celene would feel far more reassured if she thought Briala had her fingers on your pulse.'

The man decisively shook his head, but smiled. 'I understand your way of thinking, but I will not accept the Marquise's accreditation. I am not expulsing her, either, though; she will serve me well in other ways. I need not tell you that the Magisterium is not bubbling with joy at having an elf among them, and I shall give them a bone to chew on so they don't turn to bite, by sending the very lovely Marquise Briala Veldrin Pavus' way. So, you know,' he said, with a wide grin, 'the two insufferable jumped-up elves can have an intermission of equals.'

'That is a _very_ bad idea,' Cassandra said, her eyes wide in shock.

'Why?' Radonis inquired, for the first time sounding taken aback in his turn.

'Those two hate each other with burning passion,' the woman clarified.

He relaxed and chuckled once more. 'Give me some credit, your worship,' he said. 'Don't you think I know that? I too had eyes in the Winter Palace. The fact that they belong to very different tribes did not escape me.'

'So why would you…' Cassandra muttered.

'Because carrots do not have much meaning if sticks do not accompany them,' the Archon laughed. 'Veldrin is not inclined to mince words, even less so with people she actively dislikes. She is best placed to remind the South that even though it is not Tevinter's first choice, the way of blood and fire does exist, and that they should carefully weigh their options.'

The woman rolled her eyes. 'Does Vel even know this is your plan?' she asked, in a tone that was half amused, and half irritated.

'I find her natural belligerence far more convincing if she is spontaneous,' Radonis said, grinning wide.

'Oh, Maker…you know, Clodius Radonis,' Cassandra softly said, 'sometimes you give me the feeling that I am unwillingly serving as a mummer in a stage play I cannot leave.'

'We all are, Cassandra,' the man simply replied. 'We all are.'

* * *

We do have a continent to fix, don't we? In another world, I can definitely imagine Cassandra and Radonis as dragons. They both deserve it.

Abstract and IvI wish you a good night,

Thank you for reading, wish you would leave us a word.


	40. Raw

_The People cried out in despair:_

 _Alas, that we ever left Vol Dorma!_

Shartan 9:1-3.

* * *

Not even the Elvhen language, with all its delicate nuances and intricacies, held an expression that might have encompassed the hatred Abelas felt towards Veldrin Lavellan.

He'd not hated her from the very beginning, of course…on their very first encounter, the sensation had been one of condescension, rather than outright hatred; if the Elvhen Sentinel had held more knowledge of the world he'd awoken into, he might have realised that the way in which he regarded Veldrin was not at all dissimilar to the way in which most of the Dalish regarded city elves, or elves that had taken to Andraste – cowards at best, traitors at worst, merely Shem'len with pointed ears. Not kin, but simply the very last pitiful, dying embers of a mighty fire.

Seeing Solas amid her group had surprised him, but only for a short while, for it had taken him very little time to understand what the Dread Wolf was doing. Like Solas himself, he had immediately recognised the Orb Corypheus had carried into the Temple of Mythal, and grasped the dire necessity of recovering it, no matter the cost; he'd even accepted that if the woman might have chosen deadly confrontation, Solas could not have left her side, and had been prepared to sacrifice himself and his fellow Sentinels to preserve Solas' cover, because he alone was hope of restauration…It was in the Dread Wolf's nature to follow his goals no matter how cruel or convoluted the path, and, because Mythal had held utter trust in the fact that Solas goals ultimately served the greater good, Abelas' faith in one of the very few he still recognised as Elvhen had been absolute as well. He'd had no doubt that Solas had convinced the little woman who temporarily held powers beyond her comprehension to walk the petitioner's path; in Abelas' mind, there was no question that the Dread Wolf alone had engineered that the Sentinels be spared.

But then…

The truth he regarded as abominable had descended upon him not in a trickle of observation, but in a veritable revelatory hurricane; the man who would probably sacrificed Abelas and his host without blinking had not been able to either kill this insignificant, and now useless woman, or let her die. His vaunted ruthlessness stopped with her – in great horror, Abelas had seen…understood that Solas loved her, and that whatever power he held over her, she too had power over him. The Dread Wolf of legend would have thought nothing of sleeping with her, if it meant leading her astray, but Solas had not touched her... It had been then that the first seed of hatred had sprouted, and since, it had blossomed into a forest of sharp thorns and putrid blossoms.

Though Solas had not spoken on the subject, his pain and sense of betrayal when she had married to Tevinter had been tangible – he had, perhaps, expected that Veldrin Lavellan would eventually find a mate to be bonded with; with each year that passed with her not even searching, Abelas had sensed his friend falling to deeper and deeper melancholy, for there was no greater torment than hope, no matter how foolish. Weeks passed, then months; a year, then two, then three, with her still waiting. Still remembering, still hoping, in a way which, for a mortal, could only have been described as madness.

True Elvhen such as Solas could easily afford such lapses. To him, who counted millennia as heartbeats, three years were the bat of an eyelid. To her, an already grown mortal woman whose days were counted in more ways than one, a woman perhaps already over-ripe for children, such lengths of time in celibate solitude were sheer folly…But still, as if unaware of her condition, she waited, and with each day that passed, the weight on Solas' heart grew, because each day brought further proof that she had truly loved him, and that, for the first time in his long years, he had caused harm without reason or goal.

It was because he understood the man he'd come to think of as a friend that Abelas had not come to doubt Solas even when he had let her live…even when he had told her enough ancient truths to empower her…Not fully, still…Abelas guessed that Solas thought Veldrin's devotion deserved at least this, and had earnestly been relieved when she had not been able to altogether sway his heart, as the Sentinel had feared she might have.

Then, like a rattlesnake, she'd swiftly spun around and bit.

Not only had she taken a human for a mate, but one of the accursed, slaving usurpers. It was one thing, Abelas had thought, that the woman did not understand the cause of the true Elvhen. Actively opposing it, with Tevinter's aid, was an entirely different level of treason. Indeed, now the seed of hatred had sprouted and spread, and he'd thought he could hate her no more, which had been, for the moment, a great relief – hatred clouded the mind, poisoned the body and beckoned demons to one's dreams. Too much of it ended up suffocating the one who carried it in their heart, and so, for a while, Abelas had been grateful that his limit had seemingly been reached.

He'd been painfully wrong.

After years of relative distance, in which the brambles of his hatred had thinned, or simply dried out for lack of novelty, the events of the past few months had caused them to find new, vibrant roots in fertile soil.

His own reason had dictated that the woman was poison, but could never constitute a genuine danger – the only true danger he had sensed was the weakening of Solas' focus, when the Wolf had thought his _vhenan_ in danger. Precious resources had been diverted to the aid of one who only intended treachery most foul, but then, to Abelas' eyes, Solas had recovered, and regained his determination. Not for a moment had he thought Veldrin and her human following capable of awakening the Forgotten Ones. Never, in his most terrible dreams had Abelas imagined that this woman, this poisonous woman, would be able to defeat _him_.

Nor, in his most terrible dreams had he imagined what sort of swift and terrible disarray their carefully constructed and hard earned corner of the world would fall into in his absence – and, as the Elvhen language had no words to describe what the Sentinel felt for Veldrin Lavellan, it had no curses strong enough to describe his frustration at having to nudge his way through a baying mob, a gathering of people as closely knit together as the thorny vines of his hatred were.

Crowds parted for Solas; clearly, they did not part for him – when Abelas and his two companions finally made their way through, however, all three stood aghast.

Arlathan did not have a central marketplace, not yet, at least; the skills that the people had brought with them, the variety of habits and trades that they practiced had not yet meaningfully mashed together, and the nations from which the various people hailed, Dalish clans aside, still preferred to mostly mingle with their own. There had been squabbles over the past years, Abelas knew – the Fereldan elves were none too friendly to the Orlesian ones, the city elves thought little of mages, the Dalish were aloof and distrusting of all flat ears, the city itself still required much reconstruction…Under different circumstances, the Sentinel told himself, the fact that people from so many different lands had gathered together of their own volition might have been regarded as a good sign. It still wasn't one.

The elvhen had gathered in a tight circle about a young woman; her clothes were torn, showing she had been dragged to the place, and her face was scratched and bruised. Curled in the dust, she wept, her small hands, with torn and filthy fingernails, were crossed protectively over her rounded belly.

He didn't understand.

'What law could she possibly have broken…' Abelas began, looking over his right shoulder to Samson, a city elf from Denerim that he'd taken into his close council because he was a straight-talking man with the build of a bull. In his life before this one, he'd been used to fight for the entertainment of the Shem; he bore many scars, but he'd survived unscathed in other ways, for his heart was still good to its core.

'Ha?' Samson shouted back; still, Abelas could only make out the word from the movement of the other elf's lips.

In the crowd, the men outnumbered the women ten to one, Abelas reckoned, but the women, in particular, looked bloodthirsty and wild. The target of the court of the people seemed to have lost her voice wailing; but for two others, a man in his prime and a woman past hers, who protectively stood above her – the man wielding a sharpened stick and the woman a hefty, wooden ladle – the young accused of an unknown crime might have been trampled to death.

'Adultery?' Samson once again shouted.

'Mais pas de tout,' the second of Abelas' companions purred; her low tone was far more discernible under the roar of the crowd.

'Speak normal,' Samson growled; the former Orlesian chambermaid who completed the informal, and, in Solas' absence, admittedly headless city council smirked. 'C'mon, Marguerite,' the Denerim gladiator said, lowering his voice in turn. 'That kid gonna get killed here…'

'Back off, ya fuckers!' the woman with the ladle screamed, waving the implement about as if it had been as threatening as a mace. 'D'ya not get she doesn't speak effing Elvhen?'

'Neither do you,' some Dalish woman piercingly shrieked, from the gathered mass.

'Dirtha-ma1, bitch!' the woman with the ladle defiantly responded. 'I speak enough of it to tell you to back off!'

She kneeled then, whispering into the young woman's ear; eyes wild with fear, the young one placed her arms around her shoulders with the look and bodily expression of one dangling above an abyss with only a handful of moss to grip.

'Marguerite,' Abelas quietly said. 'Help me. What is this?' he asked, hanging more hope on the question than he wanted to.

'The little girl, she is with child, non? Child not of man she has,' the Orlesian elf said. 'It is obvious, that.'

'That oughta get three screaming harpies, not a hundred,' Samson reasoned. 'Certainly no men…'

'Not if the child, he is Shem,' Marguerite said. 'That makes all the difference, is it not so? She speaks not the Elvhen, so she must be from Tevinter. When we took her, there are four months since, her burden, we saw it not – now it is that we can see it, and they can see it, and they want it dead.'

Abelas looked at the young woman and at her rounded belly, not knowing what to feel or do; Marguerite did not help by continuing to speak.

'If the Wolf Who Makes Fear was here, he would handle this swift,' she said.

'But he's not here, is he, and I'm not sure how even he would do this…' Samson snarled. 'You need to stop this, brother,' the man continued, turning to Abelas. 'I ain't gonna watch a woman with child be trampled to death, even if her child is Shem.'

'The Wolf Who Makes Fear would take her to the wild beyond the walls of the city sacred,' Marguerite implacably said. 'There, it would be her decision whether to leave the child of danger to our blood, or lie to death with him. Within our city there is no place for Shem, the pure blood, it must prevail.'

The Orlesian elf had eyes in the colour of honey, but cold was her voice, and cold was her stare, and there was cold and lack of any doubt in her heart.

'Ma serannas, Marguerite,' he said, stepping forth, as Solas might have; for the first time since he had met Solas in the flesh, his hatred of Veldrin Lavellan grew to cover him and smother him, too. It was comforting.

'Silence,' Abelas said, for a second getting a feel for what it must have been to be Solas, for the crowd grew silent. Where Solas himself might have summoned quiet out of adoration or fear, he merely summoned incredulity. He took advantage.

'How has this woman wronged you?' he asked, stepping to the pregnant girl's side.

A Dalish man, with the vallaslin of Elghar'nan responded, telling the Sentinel that the young woman had wronged the city by planning to bring another human into the world.

'But she ain't plotting an' scheming on doin' that, is she? This ain't some infiltration plot! She is but a woman heavy with babe!' the woman with the ladle spoke, standing. The girl held on to her knees.

'Who are you, that you speak to me thus?' Abelas asked.

'I was called Maeris by my master Halward Pavus. My second master, Dorian Pavus called me Maeris too, and the Magistra Veldrin…'

'Do not speak that name to me!' Abelas said; dark brambles of hatred knitted together, stealing his vision, so he stepped forth and hit the woman across the face before he realised he'd even raised his hand. The entire crowd reeled as the woman staggered a little, for he had not struck her that hard. Still, he sensed the change in the gathering's mood as keenly as a deer caught scent of a careless predator – the smell was conflicting however; most exulted satisfaction, yet some…some exulted disgust.

The one called Maeris by her Tevinter masters sustained his glance with narrowed, defiant eyes; the man with the sharpened stick stepped in front of her, and jabbed his makeshift weapon at Abelas' chest in pointless, but open rage.

'Yah, the Magistra Veldrin Pavus,' Maeris hissed, from behind her defender. 'An' none of 'em raised their voices, let alone a hand to me, like ya just did.'

Despite the heat of the jungle, Abelas felt as if ice had been flowing through his veins – his hatred, so comforting seconds before, had melted to shame so deep that he wished the earth beneath his feet would open and swallow him whole. Without looking over his shoulder, he knew that that, had it not been for the large group of stunned onlookers, Samson might have punched him in the face, and it would have been thoroughly deserved. Above all, he knew that Solas…Solas would not have done as he just had. Solas…

'Let's take this somewhere less…public,' Samson said, with remarkable calm in his thick voice.

'Oui, the concentration of the people is not making us favours,' Marguerite shakily whispered. 'That was not good, Abelas,' she said, hastily rushing past him, and somehow gracefully insinuating herself between Maeris and her frail, but determined defender. 'You have our sincerest apologies, Maeris of the House Pavus…'

'Belonging to House Pavus,' Maeris corrected, between gritted teeth.

'Slave who likes being a slave,' someone in the crowd shouted.

'Person who likes their standing in the world,' the man with the sharpened stick said, loudly and clearly; his Elvhen was accented, but flawless. Clearly terrified by the fact that all were speaking a language she did not understand, the young pregnant girl grasped Maeris' knees even tighter, threatening to topple her.

'We will speak of all,' Marguerite said, kneeling, and trying to look the girl in the eyes; the girl buried her face in Maeris' skirt, refusing the comfort. 'Tell her she is safe,' Marguerite asked Maeris.

'She ain't, tho,' Maeris said, dryly.

'I swear to you she will be,' Marguerite responded, rising to her feet. 'Your man…' she hesitantly followed, looking at the male elf. 'Your man can stay with her, if you wish. If she wishes.'

The crowd murmured when Maeris gently pried the young woman from herself and whispered comforting words in her ear; the smell of the predator did not abate, it merely became more poignant as the girl shakily stood and reluctantly distanced herself from her protector. Still, Abelas was pleased that the scene of his overly public failure had been defused, and the crowd that he had to nudge his way through was slowly thinning. He still dared not look to Samson, nor Marguerite, and thus missed the poignant glance that the Orlesian elf exchanged with someone in the dispersing mass.

All that Abelas cared for was that he got to hide from his own embarrassment behind the walls of what had once been Solas' chamber, and that Samson, Marguerite and Maeris, who belonged to House Pavus and the woman he hated so that the mere mention of her name rendered him blind and violent, were following.

* * *

'The young girl must have the child Shem not,' Marguerite said. Her voice was smooth and pleasant, but her words carried a sense of terrible finality.

Abelas swallowed dry, for he knew that the Orlesian elf was right, yet, he felt the scene was frighteningly reminiscent of a trial – he, Samson and Marguerite were sitting, in relative comfort, while Maeris was standing stiffly before them.

Nonetheless, the woman remained defiant, and Abelas found himself admiring her courage, especially since she'd dropped her ladle outside the door.

'I'll tell ya what,' Maeris said, curling her upper lip to reveal the crooked teeth of one who was still obviously well fed. 'I tell ya what now, 'cuz it was impossible to make me heard outside. The girl is not with Shem child by choice.'

'Then,' Marguerite reasoned, 'there is no reason for her to want to guard it.'

'Want to keep it,' Samson corrected, squirming in his seat; Marguerite shrugged.

'Le meme,' the Orlesian said.

'No, it ain't the same,' Maeris said, dryly; the fact that she, an owned implement, understood Orlesian made Abelas feel new depths of shame. 'You _free_ folk do not get it, 'cuz you never had nuthing like it. There's good masters an' bad masters, an' bad masters sometimes bend pretty youn' things across a table or a fence, an' lift their skirts, an' take their meat stick to what they own.'

'Creators have mercy,' Samson whispered. 'We do get it, Maeris, least I do. The Shem did this to our women in alienages all the time. Take their meat sticks to where they ain't wanted. We don't kill the women for not crossing their legs tight enough, Abelas,' the large elf said, shaking his head. 'We wasn't doing that in Denerim. We oughta not do it here, brother.'

'No woman who does a child not want keeps it.' Marguerite said. 'My own…employer,' she said, with a telling smirk, 'mistook me for a resting place for his…oh, bien, stick would say hard, so I say not _stick._ Hasty spit of his limp slug was enough to quicken my belly. Knitting needle, I found most useful.'

Maeris nodded, with no hesitation. 'Ya chose how you want. But the girl wants the babe,' she said. 'Here, or in Tevinter, she ain't the one choosing on nuthin' _but_ this. How bad it gets, how good it gets…the babe will have her, and she will have it. She'll have someone she loves an' the love of who she can count on…'

'It is a human child,' Abelas answered, shaking his head. 'It cannot be born in Arlathan. We all know this,' he said, dryly. 'Maeris,' he said, looking at her, 'you must understand... All crossing of human and elf results in human. A human in our midst can only lead to more humans.'

'So what ya want to do?' the Tevinter elf asked, frowning. 'The girl wants ta keep it, an' to my mind, she's too far along for the knitting needle anyway.'

'The child cannot be born here,' Abelas repeated; he bit his lower lip in frustration. 'It cannot remain _here_ ,' he added. 'Even if…' he followed, hesitantly thinking his way through the situation, 'I allow her to have it…'

'Who are you to allow? Our new master?' Maeris spat.

'Watch yourself,' Abelas said, coldly.

'Or wha'? Ya gonna hit me again?' the woman shot, in return.

'No, certainly not,' Marguerite reassuringly intervened. 'But, I have to say, you are far less grateful than we thought…'

'What to be grateful for?' the Tevinter asked, bitterly. 'All of y'all are here by choice – _we_ ain't. D'ya think that girl out there would've come here, if she knew ya gonna try to yank her babe from her belly?'

She looked at the three in barely subdued anger.

'Y'all think you set us free, eh,' Maeris said. 'But what freedom is it, if we have no right to choose nuthin'?'

'You are not prisoners, Maeris,' Samson carefully said; the entire thing, Abelas thought, was making the Ferelden elf uneasy, and, the Sentinel admitted to himself, he was not fully comfortable either. This, he considered, must have been the eerie sensation he'd caught from the crowd.

'So, if we don't wanna be here, we can just go?' the Tevinter asked, angrily. 'Eh?'

The three exchanged an uncertain glance; Maeris' frown deepened.

'More than half o' _my_ people,' she said, 'don't speak your language. 'An' you _took_ us from the only lives we know – some of the folk will be grateful, yeah…But some ain't; we's not used to living in boats with wings, we're used to having roofs o'er our heads an' eating actual food…'

'…and serving the Shem,' Marguerite said, narrowing her eyes.

'Has nuthing to do,' Maeris answered. 'Work is work here or elsewhere – main point is ya just _took_ us. Have ya no minds? Did ya even think how many of my folk have human children already? How many mothers and fathers you've taken from their kids? I get well enough you hate all the humans, but not all of us do…'

'So,' Abelas coldly interrupted, 'you resent being taken from a life of servitude…'

'I resent pretend choice,' the Tevinter curtly replied. 'Ya may think you done us Tevinters a solid. Ya haven't – whatever pecking order ya have goin' here, we are last, an' now, with that poor girl an' her babe, ya treating us no better then our masters would.'

'How many of yours think so?' Marguerite asked, slightly leaning forward.

'Enough to matter,' Maeris answered, in a low snarl.

Abelas sighed and shook his head. 'Freedom is easily learned,' he said, softly but decisively. 'You are right in many ways,' he conceded, 'but time will ease all.'

'The mothers' longing for their children will ease in time?' Maeris shot back; the Sentinel shook his head in sorrow, and did not speak the first words that came to mind, for had he done so…

How could he, Abelas thought, tell this woman that those who willingly chose to have Shem children were traitors to his, and many others' eyes? She would not understand it, no more than her _mistress_ , the poisonous Lavellan did.

'To the matter on hand,' he forced himself to calmly say. 'I am sorry, but it has to be thus – there will be no humans in Arlathan.'

'Ya can't force the babe from the womb,' Samson shakily put in. 'It is unholy.'

'Do you think if she gives birth to it and then we throw it off a cliff or leave it for the wolves to find, it will be more easy?' Marguerite asked, arching an eyebrow.

'No,' the Ferelden elf said, an unmissable edge of anger in his voice. 'But…'

'Samson,' Abelas dryly said, 'enough. I am sorry,' he repeated, his glance shifting between the Ferelden elf and Maeris, 'but my decision on this is final. Maeris,' he willed himself to say, 'you will tell the girl…'

He did not get the chance to finish offering even the pretence of choice – the door to the chamber was thrown aside, and, for a heartbeat, Abelas was grateful for the reprieve; it was but a heartbeat. Dread set in next, for he recognised the man with the sharpened stick, just barely so, for now he too was bruised and beaten, his lips split and bloodied, his nose flattened. He lent Abelas and his makeshift court of three no attention, but shouted to Maeris, in slurred, barely understandable Tevene.

The woman's eyes went wide, and she stiffened in shock – the man grabbed her arm, and began pulling her towards the door, still shouting. There were tears streaming down his bruised face, Abelas saw. And they were not tears caused by pain of the body – no. They were tears of the heart. Maeris too began to tremble, and resisted his pull for a second longer; there was no rush to her steps when she followed, however. Only the weight of the world on her shoulders.

From the door, Maeris turned and beheld them in such sorrow and disgust that Abelas almost lowered his eyes in shame. Still, it was not to him that Maeris spoke.

'Ya said she would be safe,' the Tevinter elf said, looking to Marguerite alone. 'I see how much weight your oath carries.'

She spat on the ground, and turned to leave – Samson darted to his feet.

'Wait, please,' he spoke. 'What…what happened?'

'Have balls enough to see for yourself,' Maeris said, dryly; she left. With heavy steps and heavy hearts, Abelas and Samson followed, no more aware of themselves than if they'd been drifting spirits, and it was better so, for what their eyes saw, when they arrived was almost too much for the heart to bear.

It was the large Ferelden gladiator to come upon the scene first, and he stood petrified, hiding the horror from Abelas' view for a moment longer – they had no need to nudge their way through the crowd now; it easily parted. Gathering his courage, the Sentinel stepped up from behind Samson, and _saw._

The bloodied skirt, listed above the waist. The parted legs. The limp, small body of the barely formed, round-eared babe half emerged, and strangled between them. The young woman's eyes, fixed, and glassy, and dead. The blood still flowing, turning dust to mud.

Women, in Tevinter cut clothes, down on their knees and weeping quietly. Men, in Tevinter cut clothes, eyes alight with rage. Maeris, white as wax, stiff as a statue.

'Unspeakable,' Samson breathed, his gaze fixed on the scene. 'Unspeakable…'

With the fury of a thousand rage demons, Abelas spun on himself, thinking to return to the chamber of what he now knew had been ill-judgement; thinking to find Marguerite there, thinking to tell her what had just happened. Thinking to tell her…

He needed not go back – she stood there, barely a foot behind him, her honey coloured eyes not rimmed with tears, her glance colder than ever.

'What have you done…' the Sentinel hissed.

'Hurried le inevitable,' Marguerite said, coolly. She beheld him in barely supressed superiority. 'Here we would have arrived anyway – longer the girl lived, the more tension grown. Plus rapide, my solution.'

'But for the mercy of heaven, Marguerite,' Abelas whispered, roughly grabbing the woman's arm, to turn her towards him, 'not like this! What did you have them do, stomp the child out of her? Sit on her belly?'

'Other choices were given; she took them not.' The woman replied. 'More fast, like this.'

Yes, Abelas numbly thought, faster indeed. But he looked about himself, and the mixed sense of the feelings of the gathered people returned with a vengeance; there were still those who exuded satisfaction, but they were far fewer. The gruesomeness of the scene, the fact that what had happened was easily discernible even to those who had not witnessed it...It was not only the Tevinters that beheld him in awe and sickened incredulity. Samson had yet to look away from the carnage, and all but the most hardened of the Dalish were truly struck – some would recover, some would perhaps come to understand, in time…

But now, as the former Tevinter slaves surrounded the young woman's body, hiding her and her unfortunate dead infant from view, Abelas knew, beyond doubt that whatever thin veneer of peace he had managed to maintain was now irrevocably broken; the lines that had existed all along, the lines that might have once been erased by time, had now been drawn thick for all to see.

He shook his head, and let his hand slip off Marguerite's arm; oddly, the woman insinuated her fingers between his, and her eyes gathered some warmth.

'You know all too well there was no other way,' she whispered. 'If we'd allowed the child to be born, it would have been much worse, and she would be dead regardless; no more can one make a woman have a child she wishes not for, than take from a woman a child she wishes – to cast her out anywhere near where she help might find would doom us all. A new-born babe, a mother who gives it breast – it would have swayed more hearts; when the time came to put them out…'

Abelas clenched his teeth.

'Perhaps, Marguerite,' he whispered, not taking his eyes of Maeris. 'But _they_ will never forget this. Nor forgive it.'

'Then, _she_ must be next, maybe.' The Orlesian said, dryly.

'That,' an unknown man said, in an even, hushed tone, 'would be most unwise.'

Abelas measured him from head to toe, and narrowed his eyes – the man's accent and the cut of his robes pointed to the fact that he too was of Tevinter, and that he was, undoubtedly, a mage. Whether a slave or not, however, was hard to discern; the man carried himself with a poise the others did not possess, and his dress was blatantly richer than that of the others.

'Your name?' the Sentinel asked.

'Flavius,' the other responded. 'Scribe to Archon Radonis.'

'Another who appreciated his station, then?' Marguerite asked, with an icy smile; Flavius looked at her with undisguised contempt – something, Abelas thought, that was, in itself, most unwise, given the fact that the Orlesian had just shown she wielded quite some power over _her_ people.

'Non, chere mademoiselle,' he responded, calmly and clearly. 'One those who are here by choice. I could easily have resisted your rapture, and I strongly advise you do not attempt to send any of your… _following_ my way, or Maeris' way; it would turn out unpleasant. For them.'

The woman smirked. 'You have not learned from your masters, then, that a rebellion without a head is not much of a rebellion, hm?' she asked.

'While you obviously don't grasp that a rebellion with a powerful symbol needs no head,' Flavius returned; he shifted slightly aside, and gracefully gestured towards the dead young woman. 'You have just given them one. The last thing you want to do is give them another, which is exactly what you will do if you attack Maeris.'

'You think the child Shem should have been born, Flavius, scribe to Radonis?' the Orlesian once more inquired, narrowing her eyes.

'No,' the man calmly replied. 'I simply think that pregnancy is a delicate state for a woman, and infants are not necessarily the sturdiest of creatures; women die in childbirth. Babes die in their cots. In other words,' he followed, turning his clear, green eyes to Abelas, 'there were ways in which this goal could have been accomplished without starting a war.'

'Spoken like a true Tevinter,' Abelas noted, dryly, yet, though he hated himself for it, he could find little to disagree with in what Flavius had said.

'Spoken like a man who has every reason to want _us all_ to survive,' Flavius returned. 'What you have done here, mademoiselle,' he said, once more looking to Marguerite, 'is precisely what her master might have done once he learned of the girl's condition. Might not have been her master, might have been his honourable wife, but _someone_ might have held that poor girl down and washed out her womb; she might have lived, she might not have. Those people gathered about her poignantly know this – it might have happened to them, or to one they love, and they would have been as powerless to stop it as they were now. You cannot teach people that they are not livestock if you treat them as if they were.'

Marguerite looked away, and bit her lower lip; there was a minute ripple of emotion in her eyes, but whether it was guilt, or the realisation that she had truly committed a great mistake, it was hard to discern.

'I still think the Maeris woman is dangerous,' she said, her voice lacking total conviction.

'No,' the Samson breathed, finally dragging himself to their side. 'If ya touch that woman I'll cut your throat myself, ya cruel, cruel Orlesian whore…'

'Enough,' Abelas tiredly said. 'Enough! Enough of this. Let them see to their dead,' he ordered, then spoke the words again, louder, when all eyes, even Tevinter eyes turned to him. Samson nodded, with tears in his eyes; Flavius gave him a short, approving nod.

Without waiting to see if he'd been obeyed, Abelas spun on himself and stalked away.

 _We will not survive here,_ the Sentinel dazedly thought. _We will kill each other before the humans do._

1 May you learn. Considered one of the greatest Elvhen curses, even overtaking 'May the Dread Wolf take you.' Solas says it to Vivienne, and I could find words no more fitting.

* * *

Hello, hello - now, we hope, you can begin to see a truer and more complex villain than Solas ever was: the difficulties of governing.


	41. Under the Dome

_The work of man and woman,_

 _By hubris of their making._

 _The sorrow a blight unbearable._

 ** _-Threnodies 7:11_**

* * *

The sound of the slap echoed through the dark dungeon, and the gesture all but sent the frail woman spinning. Tears of humiliation and surprise in her eyes, she turned to face Cassius, and distantly, though the deep vat of acid pain in which he was submerged, Solas thought he could almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

'I thought you swore this…thing,' Cassius barked, erratically waving his arm in the direction of the shimmering field of energy that surrounded Solas' cage, 'worked!'

'It does,' Calpernia replied; despite the tears her voice was defiant. 'Perhaps,' she added, finding her bite, 'you should try it yourself, Magister Cassius – and don't you dare raise your hand to me again; I may be Liberata, but I am free and human, and this is still assault.'

Cassius smirked. 'Who'd testify?' he muttered. 'This thing?' he queried, directing a hate filled glance at his prisoner.

'I would,' Solas shrugged, despite the chains – because he was telling the truth, the relief from the pain was immediate, and, he guessed, visible, for Cassius' features became even further contorted with impotent rage. 'And there's no need to thus abuse your minion,' he added. 'Her device does work.'

'You are mocking me, creature!' the Magister hissed, and Solas gave a strangled chuckle.

'Of course I am,' he once more truthfully responded; the pain was almost completely gone. 'A menial, but satisfactory pastime.'

'You see?' Calpernia muttered. 'The field does work – when it speaks, and it is truthful, it feels no pain.'

'That is not the part I am interested in, you insipid woman,' Cassius snarled. 'What I am interested in is where this bloody jungle fortress is! And see…See?' he all but screamed, noticing that Solas had not even cringed. 'It feels nothing!'

'That's because you did not ask it a question,' the woman sighed, in exasperation. 'You merely made a statement of interest, addressed to me. Truthfully, Magister Cassius,' she deeply frowned. 'This magical containment field was designed by Lord Corypheus himself; saying that it does not function is akin to saying the rack does not function simply because one does not get answers within the hour.'

'It's been four weeks,' Cassius said, his voice reduced to a pitiful whine. 'If I had used the rack…'

'You might have gotten the temptation to get just…slightly carried away, which is not precisely what your masters want,' Solas neutrally observed; landing another sting at the clearly befuddled sadistic Magister had not been his only goal, however.

He knew well enough that the field worked, by now – he felt pain when he did not answer simple questions; he felt excruciating pain when he even thought of lying, so much, in fact, that the lie could not be uttered.

It simply was that the respite from the device's unyielding clutches was truly welcome. Just as all the other implements of torment that had reminded him of what true bodily pain felt like, an instrument was only as good as its victim's resolve was weak, and Solas somehow guessed that Magister Cassius had not met a creature quite like him in his previous explorations for extracting truth via various bodily orifices.

Someone who had more physical resistance to pain than any short lived, dreamless mortal, because he'd seen and felt it all in dreams and had been prepared for some of it. Not all of it – dreams were still dreams, and the dreamer, unlike spirits and demons, could not truly slip into the physical form of the one who dreamt, thus the pain itself was but a mirror. The reality of the pain, once rationalised…was not lessened. Yet, when the pain came, the mind went to curious places, and to those places Solas had oft travelled, with other martyrs.

He'd even dreamt of Andraste's pyre, once; he'd smelled hair burnt, then flesh burnt, he'd seen the eager crowd of Minrathous though her eyes. He'd felt how relived she had been when Hessarian had put the Blade of Mercy though her chest, and how happy she'd felt that her sacrifice had amounted to something; he'd also seen her though the eyes of a young Minrathous milk-maid, who'd asked her mother – why does she not cry, why does she not scream?

 _Why does she break the rules, when we all keep the rules? Why can they not make her scream in the fire? They make us all scream without fire…is it because people say she said is truth? Is it?_

Solas had not liked those dreams, for they simply showed all faiths needed martyrs – he knew already that he was to be one, but did not feel worthy of such recognition, for there was no faith in him to be had.

Still, he'd known both his ancient enemies for millennia, and hence knew all too well that neither regarded the suffering they could, and had, casually inflicted, as a goal onto itself. The satisfaction of revenge upon the people who had shunned them had existed, of course, yet underneath it, there had been a far more pragmatic goal: by locking the Forgotten Ones away, Solas had effectively turned them into outsiders, no different than the demons who could only descend into the unchanging world if blood was shed to summon them. The fact that they had only been capable of possessing dragons, not humans or Elvhen, and only managed to project their wills, yet not return in full, even with such great offerings, was testimony to his own past skill.

Indeed, their violence upon the people might partially have stemmed from hatred, but it had not been either mindless or goal-less; there had been chilling purpose to it, and a clear focus that the human who now wielded a whip on their behalf did not seem to possess.

Tevinter's need to recover its property, and perhaps gain even more of it was undeniable, of course, and Solas grasped it better than he might have liked. Magister Cassius was greatly frustrated at his lack of progress, but the task in itself visibly gave him pleasure, too – sadism for its own sake was a wide crack in any armour, one that no man, even one with no true hope of reprieve for himself, had a right to leave unexploited.

'Why do you need to ask me for the location of my jungle fortress?' Solas asked. 'Why will your Gods not surrender it to you?'

For a moment, the human looked baffled enough to actually answer instead of ask.

'Why, you insolent…' the Magister pitifully squeaked; Calpernia cringed in embarrassment, and Solas truly sympathised. The man was embarrassing.

'It is a fair point I am making,' the elf shrugged.

'Maybe I just enjoy asking,' Cassius spat.

'I hold no doubt you do,' Solas matter-of-factly said, 'but your desperation to obtain an answer is obvious; I can only assume your Gods are cruelly mocking you…'

'Has your fair lady been down here to see you, yet?' Calpernia asked, interrupting his exploration of the armour's crack; the minion was swifter than the master, Solas thought, also wondering why the woman accepted the embarrassment of a superior she had without protest. From what he had seen of these two – and he'd seen more than he cared to – the freed slave could run circles around the Magister with her ankles bound, even in such simple tasks as causing pain.

She did not even need the magic force field to do it.

'I do not think that I am a sight to be relished, at present,' Solas slowly answered.

'Or perhaps she is busy,' Calpernia shot back. 'Busy planning for the destruction of Arlathan, perhaps?'

He shook his head, for this shot had been wide of aim. 'Keeper Lavellan would never do that,' he said.

'Perhaps not Keeper Lavellan, no,' the woman agreeably said. 'But Magistra Pavus definitely would. She has already given you to us, why would she not follow through?'

Of all the words the freed slave meant as weapons, only one truly registered, and it hurt more than any lash.

'Magistra,' Solas dully echoed; the fact that Cassius looked as if he'd just swallowed a particularly juicy slug barely caught his eye though the fog of pain.

'She did not sell you out for a menial prize,' Calpernia shrugged. 'Perhaps I am insisting in the wrong direction,' she sighed, turning away. 'Even the rack stops working after the subject loses sensitivity,' she said, to no one in particular. 'It sadly should have lost its sensitivity to this particular screw by now.'

But he hadn't. He hadn't, and she somehow knew it, thus she kept turning the screw.

'So,' Calpernia followed, 'here we have an elf, raised higher than any elf has been raised for generations. A revered religious figure, the head of a mighty army, a literal king maker; and suddenly she gives all that up, and marries into money. Human money, and not a little amount of human money…also, she marries a name. An important human name; I would see the profiteering bitch as what she is from a mile away, but our subject here did not. You could almost sympathise with its stupidity.'

She shot him an indifferent glance. 'Almost.'

'But,' she once more sighed, 'one cannot help but admire her; she marries money, she marries name, and she delivers a former lover, the last meaningful defender of the slave race to his fate without batting an eyelid. Magistra was par for the course.'

She met Solas' glance and smiled.

'You're right,' Calpernia said, dryly, addressing the stricken elf. 'She's not delivered Arlathan – yet, given her progress thus far, I am assured she has not done it because the correct price has yet to be named. Maybe Magistra is simply not enough – maybe she'll actually try for Archon, for herself or for her human husband: once, in a different world, I would have said it was impossible, but…Flying cows have been seen over Minrathous, and now that she and her husband have effectively restored the Gods, I would place nothing in the realm of the impossible.'

'Keeper Lavellan would never accept…' Solas shakily said.

Calpernia arched an eyebrow in response. 'Accept?' she queried. 'She was sworn into office, with great pompe a fortnight past. The first Magister to take the new oath: loyalty onto death to the Tevinter Imperium and all its Southern Provinces, to its true and immortal Gods…'

'A lie too far,' Solas said, somehow mastering his voice for a second longer; he cringed then, and a soft groan did escape him, though he'd tried to catch it behind gritted teeth.

The force field flared red, in sign that the pain had returned, twofold now, threefold…He had not sensed its approach, because in truth, until the words had been spoken, he had not felt that he was about to lie; he'd only realised, in horror, that he believed Calpernia when he'd heard himself actually speak. His heart still did not want to see the truth in that Vel would stoop so low, his pride would not accept that she would rise so high without him, but, in his mind…there was doubt.

He'd just lied to himself, and the cage knew it.

The human female's features turned to a feral smile. 'See, Magister?' Calpernia hissed over her shoulder, to her stunned superior. 'The field does work.'

Not giving Cassius the time to undo her good work, she turned and left the chamber, leaving the door behind her open and her prisoner in greater torment than anything that they had thus far caused to inflict in a fortnight. Clearly furious at that his minion had succeeded where he'd failed, Cassius whispered a curse, but followed her, slamming the door behind him; it did not quite stay closed, so he slammed it once more, with strength born of redoubled fury – it did stay closed, this time, and it was duly barred.

But none of that mattered; even in the absence of his torturers, the pain did not subside one iota. They did not need to be in the chamber to torment him however; they'd just filled him with enough doubt for him to far more efficiently torment himself, until their inevitable return.

 _Unless…Unless…_

The pain still allowed him the tiniest room for thought, and once the initial pangs of humiliation and disbelief subsided, he forced himself to look beneath to woman's words, and the red flare of the dome was broken by a rim of blue.

Not that Cassius saw it; door barred behind him, he spun on Calpernia with the fury of both awakened dragons combined, and slapped her once more with such force and hatred that even the armed and armoured guards flinched.

'If you ever embarrass me like that again…' he menaced, fruitlessly, as now there was not even shock depicted on the woman's features; merely disgust, and though Calpernia would doubtlessly be left bruised, she simply turned and walked away from him. 'Don't you dare…'

The woman spun so fast that it was his turn to draw back in barely repressed fear.

'I am not embarrassing you, Magister, you are embarrassing yourself,' she calmly spoke; the anger made her dead fish eyes all but glow in the dark. 'I simply saved you from doing so in front of our defeated enemy; should my interventions not be required in the future, please refrain from inviting me to the spectacle.'

'Oh worry not, I shan't,' Cassius growled, 'for you are not of even minimal use to me. More the fool me for believing low born miscreants such as yourself and Gladius could possibly assist with anything.'

Calpernia swallowed the insult, and though she drew her lips thin over her teeth, she did not give him an excuse for justifiably hitting her again. 'Very well,' she said, dryly. 'I shall take my leave, and only further collaborate if anyone higher than yourself requests it. Still, Magister Cassius, allow me one further word of advice.'

'Not required,' the man snarled.

'Indeed it is, if you ever wish to actually accomplish your task, and find the location of Arlathan,' Calpernia responded. 'It is not that Lord Corypheus' device does not function; the magic will, eventually, break it, but not in time for you to claim any merit – my former master, Erasthenes, resisted it for months. This creature will resist it for years…And the reason why it will resist is not the fact that its physical endurance has not been tried; you've seen it bleed, you've seen it hiss in pain, it is still flesh and blood – no.'

Cassius smirked. 'It's not been tried enough.'

'No,' she said, narrowing her eyes. 'You are not obtaining results because you fail to understand how long people will suffer for their cause; that is easily explained by the fact that you have never suffered for a cause in your entire existence: our brothers and sisters bled and died throughout the south, fighting for Lord Corypheus. Our brothers and sisters bled and died here, by the Archon's orders,' the woman followed, in a blood curling tone, 'under your glance, around your feet – and you did what, in the meanwhile? _Called_ yourself Venatori?'

'I'd be careful of how and to whom I speak those words,' the Magister responded, dryly. 'The Gods do not seem as fond of your Lord as one might have expected, Calpernia. He did declare that they do not exist, and you fought for his cause.'

She simply shrugged. 'I did,' the woman simply made reply. 'And I'd have died for it, if my Lord called. I would have suffered for it too, far more than you would ever understand…That is how I know this creature that you seek to subdue will resist your persuasions while it still thinks its suffering has reason…'

Cassius shook his head. 'Arlathan is lost to it,' he said. 'It must know that.'

'The fortress is not its cause,' Calpernia said slowly. 'The slave race is its cause, and the sooner it comes to believe that they are lost, the sooner you will have a fortress it thinks hollow. What better place to start, then, in showing that its people are ready to bend knee to us than at their very top?'

He breathed out sharply, finally seeing sense but hating it as if he'd been dragged across hot coals, then thrown into ice water to find it; still, trawling through the muck, he found something to finally hurt the woman with, other than a mere slap.

'Veldrin Lavellan is a Magistra now, though.' Cassius said. 'She did take the oath of loyalty, before Radonis and the Gods, and all the Magisterium. You did not lie to that creature, you did not even mislead it…And for what's best, Liberata, Veldrin Lavellan is sitting in _your_ seat. The one that you were promised.'

'Which gives me motive to hate her as much as you do.' Calpernia briefly said, meeting his glance and baring her teeth. 'If you give me what I desire, I shall deliver Arlathan to _you_ , so that you may deliver it onwards.'

'And you desire what, precisely?' Cassius sneered. 'I shall remove Lavellan from your seat at such a time when you deliver _me_ Arlathan.'

'I do not want to be promised a seat, seats have been promised before.' The woman said. 'You will take me as your Altus, after which I shall find my own seat…'

'Inconceivable,' the Magister cackled. 'Inconceivable, you stupid woman! Feel blessed that you are even Liberata, and learn your place, which lies well beneath me…I might as well be elevating Gladius!'

'If Arlathan should ever come within our grasp, Magister Cassius, I shall obtain it.' Calpernia said with a demeanor so faultlessly polite that it was an insult. 'The prize might have been yours, before the words you spoke. Now, I fear, you will bid for it along many others.'

'Try it, and I shall skin you,' he said, smirking and walking up the stairs.

She lowered her glance, and waited until her heartbeat had settled, and she no longer fluttered in fear of that the man would return. For such was fear of masters – once learned, it never fully faded, and still travelled one's bones, and rendered one's knees weak.

And yet, on those week knees, Calpernia spun and headed back into the dungeon that hosted Solas' cell; she felt mildly displeased that the dome surrounding the elf had already begun to reacquire a faint blue glow, which demonstrated that the captive was already rationalising his previous doubts. It was not a good sign, the woman considered.

He recovered quickly, which, to her mind, was an unsettling sign – it was either that its attachment to Veldrin Pavus was weaker than she had been led to believe, or, to the contrary, much stronger and more rooted in reason than Calpernia might have liked. The latter, the woman knew, was far more dangerous than the former, for, unknowingly, she had made the very same calculations about Solas' potential weaknesses that Solas himself had been making about Cassius.

'I gather Magister Cassius succumbed to the obvious and decided intelligent delegation was in order,' the elf said; the red flickers that occasionally crossed the magical dome's surface told her that he must still have experienced pain, but his voice was composed and even laced in irony. 'Or,' he reasoned with himself, 'perhaps not, in which case, I would suggest that you go about what you plan to do swiftly and take advantage of this opportunity before he learns you have manifested initiative and turns your life into more of a living hell than he probably intends to already.'

'I told you nothing but the truth,' Calpernia replied, in an equally even tone; red lightning shot across the dome, in sign that her words still struck a mark. Not an important enough one, however.

'I have no doubt that you have told me at least partial truth,' Solas responded simply, the truthfulness of his pronouncement returning the barrier to faint, shimmering blue. 'The people have never needed gods, least of all me, to find their way…'

'Into extinction?' the woman inquired, with a little smile; the creature thought that he had learned how to manipulate the dome – for anyone but Calpernia, it might have been a discouraging sign. Not for her, though. Erasthenes had thought the same, in the very beginning, but he'd come to learn better…so much better…Up to the point where all his hopes, and all of his realities were eroded or placed so far out of his reach; until the point when he had finally grasped that his only escape from constant pain and doubt would be death, and finally decided to hurry it upon himself.

This one, she knew, would not even have that luxury.

'It seems to me,' Calpernia said, slowly walking around Solas' cage, to take her bound prisoner in from all angles, 'that with or without their gods, the slave race cannot eschew its given destiny, and some of your decaying ilk are better endowed in terms of individual survival instincts.'

Red pangs of pain shot across the blue barrier, letting her know she was, once more, on the correct path.

'You left a race meant for nothing but service, and bound for nothing save obedience,' Calpernia said. 'You found a race that has become nothing and heads nowhere; within your very kin and in your very bosom, your enemies abound. You and your cattle are a laughing stock, but I shall freely give this to you – those who are not about to be laughed at shall be productive in making sure of their personal rise.'

Smiling, she produced a parchment from and read its first lines – ' _Magistra Veldrin of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous, welcomes Marquise Briala of Orlais to company in her seated study, at such a time that the clock strikes three past noon, if such a day and time poses no conflict…_ '

The dome that Solas dwelled in became furious red, and he writhed in great pain; the woman smiled.

'Should I toss this within your cage for you to read, as you place obvious doubt upon my words?' she quipped; she did just that with a flick of her wrist, knowing all too well that the bound elf could never reach for or read the letter. He motioned to reach for it nonetheless, heavy shackles cutting into his wrists.

Calpernia laughed at the sight.

'Trust, it seems, is a shorter tether than it pretends to be,' she said.

'No shorter than fear, I think,' he responded, and though the dome still glowed red, as pain and blood and great doubt Calpernia turned away with a heart as heavy as if she had been bound under the dome herself.

* * *

Hello hello, we have paused for two weeks mostly because Abstract be lazy.

Thank you for watching, leave us a nice word while the plot is still thin,

Cheers,

Abstract and IvI


	42. Never Again

" _Why are you to come upon us alone,_

 _Wearing the armor of our most hated foe,_

 _When I can see you are no man of the legion?"_

 _And Shartan answered: "If you hate the legion,_

 _Then I am your friend."_

 _ **Shartan 20:21-26**_

* * *

'Congratulations,' Briala said. 'Grand ceremony.'

'Thank you,' Veldrin replied, knitting her fingers on the still bare desk before her; the red haired elf narrowed her eyes.

'I never thought anyone could ever surpass me as the most hated elf on the continent, yet you manage to surprise yet again.' Briala agreeably said.

'Thank you,' Veldrin once more replied, smiling brightly in her turn. 'I aim to please.'

Briala grinned. 'Indeed,' she responded. 'The question is whom, precisely…The pleasing part was never in doubt. I find your rooms strangely sparse, however,' the Orlesian said, looking about herself. 'One would think the _Restorer_ would get finer appointments.'

Veldrin took the sting with an even wider smile.

'I was only recently sworn in; I am not moving into the guest wing of the Archon's palace just yet, if that is what you are here to determine.'

'I was more thinking under Lusacan's wing.' Briala distractedly said.

'On top of Imperator's Gate? That sounds extremely uncomfortable.' Veldrin replied, arching an eyebrow.

'Not as uncomfortable, one might have thought, as kneeling before them and swearing allegiance, but…'

'I managed to surprise you, yet again; you are too oft surprised for a spymistress, Marquise,' Vel thinly smiled. 'Not unlike another spymistress of my acquaintance…what can I do for you, Briala?' she tiredly asked. 'Other than compare degrees of discomfort?'

'You swore to the Old Gods of Tevinter,' Briala said, dryly.

'And you swore to Andraste,' Vel acidly replied. 'So, again, are you here to compare degrees of discomfort? Because, in that case, I will order refreshments. We will be here a while.'

She sighed, and rested her forehead in her hands. 'Besides,' Vel followed, 'I doubt Empress Celene would find it useful employment of your official first visit, to this, our glorious capital…Why did she send _you_? She must have known Radonis would not accept your accreditation.'

'She trusted no one else but me; reports of the dragons' awakening arrived in Val Royaux weeks ago, of course, but whether they were true, or mere propaganda, we could not truly discern.' Briala responded. 'Besides, we did not truly believe that I would truly reach the Archon – she appointed me with you in mind. Because, you see…'

The Orlesian chuckled eerily. 'She thought that we were kindred,' Briala ended, smiling wryly; Veldrin laughed too, and finally gestured for her guest to sit. 'You'd think that after twenty years sharing my bed and my life she would be able to tell one Elvhen nation from another,' the red-haired woman followed, 'yet…'

'We still are all the same to her,' Veldrin said, softly.

'Quite so,' Briala nodded, smiling; she was not donning her mask, and, for once, the expression on her features did not seem perfectly practiced. 'She therefore thought that you might be more open to speaking with me than you would be speaking to an unknown envoy. Will you? Speak honestly with me?' Briala asked, crossing her legs.

Veldrin shook her head in amusement. 'What should we speak of? Anything that Leliana has not already told you?'

Briala conceded with a shrug. 'She is a tad…shall we say, disturbed. That aside, she can only tell me what I have already seen – the dragons are real, you have indeed attained Magistra, the elves are not carrying some sort of infectious disease, as Denerim...'

'…as Denerim is already more than happy to unofficially suggest,' Veldrin sneered; Briala shrugged again.

'A plague they can mend, or at the very least pretend to address,' the Orlesian said, dryly. 'The broken veil, less so.'

'And Val Royaux?' Vel asked.

'Val Royaux has not expressed an official position on the subject. For the time being.' Briala answered, lowering her glance. 'The Chantry's reassurances are beginning to sound hollow, as the chaos throughout the land has not decreased. I am authorised to advise you that not even Celene will be able to contain rumours.'

'I need not tell you what will follow, should either capital decide to declare this an elf-carried disease, Magistra Pavus,' the Orlesian continued, gracefully folding her hands in her lap. 'The so-called plague of Denerim is not so long in the past that you've forgotten what actions were taken on the occasion. Further, now, unlike then, I should think Tevinter will be glad to pay above market price for those the southern capitals deem…diseased; we are in dire need of gold and distraction, and, from what I hear, Tevinter is in dire need of elves.'

Veldrin smiled thinly. 'I wonder what price you shall fetch, then, Marquise. I can even think of quite a few eager buyers with pockets deep enough to convince even Celene to part with your delightful company.'

'I scarcely think…'Briala began, in as a polite and sweet a voice as ever.

'That one low barb deserves another? Oddly enough, I do,' Veldrin replied, her lips drawn thin. 'We are no longer in Orlais, and we are not playing the grand game, _cousin._ We're in Tevinter, I am a Magister and you are a person with no legal status, as your accreditation has not been accepted. I can therefore tell you exactly what I think.'

'I had dared hoped that you had not arrived to the delusion of power where you find shooting the messenger is in any way wise.' The Orlesian said. 'If you assume that the nature of my dispatch brings me pleasure, you are gravely mistaken.'

Veldrin measured Briala through half lidded eyes, then gave her a slow, thoughtful nod.

'I'd not assumed that, no,' Vel said. 'It is Celene's mendacity and your subservient tolerance of it that inspires anger; of all people, she knows exactly what _this_ is, as she has been though the eluvians. Come to think of it, so has your Grand Enchanter…'

'That bears no relevance, Magistra Pavus,' Briala answered. 'The fact that this is no disease is well known in the Southern courts, but none can publicly admit to a problem with no solution. Furthermore, Arl Teagan's correspondence with Denerim is antagonistic, and parts of Denerim were already deeply convinced that this is no more than a Tevinter ruse, since your adoptive homeland is the only one who is not suffering.'

'Preposterous,' Veldrin muttered. 'If this had been Tevinter's will, Lusacan would be nesting quite comfortably in the Palace District.'

Briala lowered her glance. 'I agree with you,' she said, a slight tremor in her voice, 'and we have had it from good sources that King Therein, who was at the Hero of Ferelden's side during the previous, grievous wrong visited upon our people, knows the truth of it. He is a fair man, and I would be slighting Queen Anora, were I to say she is not a fair woman. Still, she is more pragmatic than her husband, and, in truth, it is now impossible to ascertain what her knowledge or even involvement was in the original Denerim plague, given that it was her father to have engineered it...'

'Ah,' Veldrin bitterly chuckled, 'now Celene's choice of agent becomes even clearer – had it been a human speaking these words to me…'

'It would not lessen their seriousness, Magistra, nor could you afford to turn them away.' Briala said, dryly. 'It is Celene's desire that I personally impress upon you that this course of action is the one she least desires, yet it is not one that she can prevent for too long. Not if she wishes to keep her crown…'

'A crown I allowed her to keep in the first place, if memory serves,' the dark haired elf hissed.

'King Alistair Therein was also seated by an elf, Magistra Pavus,' Briala replied, slightly leaning forward. 'Given the present circumstances, and your movements of late, this renders their positions even more tenuous.'

Veldrin laughed. 'And does it not cross the minds of those who see all Elvhen as a threat that their troubles only continue because another elf made sure that they are still about, and able to proffer threats, Marquise?'

'That is not enough to make any forget that it was an elf who brought us to the brink,' the Orlesian coolly responded, 'nor that you have had a heavy hand in the return of what the entire continent regards as living nightmares. You are in no position to bargain, here, Magistra Pavus…'

The dark-haired elf knitted her fingers on the table before her, and lowered her glance to them, to disguise the fact that her lips were drawn fiercely thin over her teeth.

'Of course I am not, Marquise Briala,' she said, clearly enunciating each word. 'You've not yet told me what the enlightened monarchs you represent expect of me.'

'The veil needs to be mended,' Briala answered, with no hesitation; Veldrin humourlessly scoffed.

'That alone?' she sneered. 'Why, I shall call for needle and thread and set about it presently!'

'Your humour…' Briala began, curling her upper lip in disgust.

'Not to your taste?' Veldrin said, in cold fury. 'I apologise; your sense of humour is not to my taste either, and neither is your Empress' _offer._ So, I shall make her, and Queen Anora, an offer of my own. There shall be no mention of an Elvhen plague, and all rumours of one shall be officially dismissed. Within a week, Marquise.'

Briala pleasantly chuckled. 'Interesting,' she said, tilting her head to the side. 'Quite deranged, but, interesting.'

'Let me go even further, then,' Veldrin replied, between clenched teeth. 'Should that not happen, I shall turn the Winter Palace into a floating icicle, and tear all of the humans' hearts out, starting with your _vhenan_ , Empress Celene, and ending with Grand Enchanter Vivienne.'

Briala's facial expression did not change, but her eyes came alive with inquisitiveness; clearly, Veldrin thought, she was trying to read for signs of insanity without appearing too obvious. The Orlesian remained remarkably calm, and relaxed in her chair.

'Very well,' Briala calmly responded. 'What shall your message to Denerim be, then?'

'That it shall be my pleasure to have Arl Teagan, the King's own uncle, as my guest in Minrathous until such a time that Denerim officially denies rumours of a plague as well,' Veldrin replied.

'So, essentially, you want to declare war on the entire continent,' the Orlesian smiled.

Veldrin nodded. 'Declare it and end it on the same day, yes.' she said, dryly. 'Because if anyone thinks that if Tevinter can be challenged now, they did not notice the dragons. You did notice the dragons, didn't you, Briala? Write about them, in detail.'

'You cannot be serious,' Briala chuckled.

'Do I seem like I am jesting, to you? Because, trust me, I am not.'

'Then something very serious must have happened to your mind on Seheron,' the other elf said, cuttingly, 'for if you think that Tevinter will go to war to defend the elves in Orlais, you are quite disturbed yourself.'

Veldrin shook her head. 'I don't need Tevinter's armies. I just need the Lord Watcher, for half a day.'

'Tevinter's dragons helped the Shem of Tevinter crush Elvhenan,' the Orlesian snarled. 'You think they would defend the people _now_ because they owe you?'

'No, of course not,' Veldrin replied. 'But something tells me that, if openly challenged, they would not think much of turning the seat of the false God into an ice tower. In a sense,' the Magistra said, leaning back in her chair and measuring Briala through half-lidded eyes, 'perhaps Southern Thaedas should even be grateful for that course of action – the dismantling of the Chantry will be over and done with in one fell swoop, so to speak, and poor Cassandra will not have to run in fiery circles to prevent a war.'

Under her flawless make-up, Briala visibly paled. 'You are serious,' she neutrally said.

'I would not test me,' Vel answered. She briefly looked aside. 'And yes, Marquise,' she ended, 'something did happen to me on Seheron: I lost nine tenths of my patience span and my entire sense of humour.'

'Noted,' the Orlesian said, reconstructing her practiced smile. It faded in a mere second. 'You do, however, understand that there has been no more of a dangerous time for our remaining people, and that no official admission from Denerim or Val Royaux can control every human peasant in possession of a pitchfork, yes?'

'Better than you do, I think,' Veldrin said, lowering her glance. 'Although,' she added, in a kinder tone, 'I would not start a contest on that count.'

Briala considered the words for a moment, then sighed in a manner that seemed honest. 'You are an even more dangerous person than I remembered,' she said.

'Perhaps,' Veldrin admitted. 'Wisdom would indicate that making an enemy of me is not advisable. Especially not now.'

She sighed, in her turn. 'Look…Briala…I am ascertained that you think my cold reception of you is based on the fact that you are city-born and bear no vallaslin.'

'And it is not?' the other elf asked, with an obliging smile.

'No,' Veldrin resolutely responded. 'I know that your crossing of paths with Keeper Telthen and his clan was scarring to you. Hence, it is also likely that any assurances on my part regarding the fact that Clan Lavellan was radically different would fall on deaf ears.'

'Do you not mean _flat_?' Briala inquired, her smile still cast in immutable marble.

'The words never crossed my mind, let alone my lips,' Veldrin responded, with a sorrowful shake of her head. 'Clan Lavellan did not even shun humans, though whatever inhabits the heavens, if they are truly not empty, made sure we paid for it. No, my dislike of you is purely personal, instinctual and admittedly, baseless. It is nonetheless real.'

'That clears the air,' the Orlesian neutrally said.

'Good,' Veldrin curtly replied; she stood, and turned her back to Briala, to dreamily glimpse at the slumbering forms of the two dragons. It was an odd view she offered, the Orlesian inwardly considered – from the angle at which she beheld Veldrin, it looked as though Lusacan had been resting on her shoulder.

'The past,' the Magistra said, dreamily, 'is a country I do not long to visit; not often at least, yet an excursion is necessary from time to time, for however painful it may be…when we first met, a decade ago, I had no reason to like, respect or trust you. Your organisation, for as skilled as you were rumoured to be, had accomplished little for the city elves in Orlais, and even less for the Orlesian Dalish.'

Content that she was not being watched, Briala bit her lower lip, and looked away. 'Indeed,' she answered. 'Let us not forget that I did not have a flaming mark upon my hand, as you did.'

'And let us not forget that after you brought the Orlesian civil war to the Dales, you returned to Halam'shiral leaving _my_ people to the mercy of the divided Orlesian armies.' Veldrin replied.

'Is that how you see it?' the red-haired woman questioned, narrowing her eyes. 'Because, Magistra Pavus, I still regard my actions in what concerns the Dalish of the Dales as being the perfect response to the actions they undertook to protect _my_ people through the centuries.'

Veldrin slowly shook her head, and turned to face Briala, a look of great sorrow upon her features. 'What power did you see the Dalish had to protect you and yours? Do you not wonder whether Felassan took you to the Dales, and Keeper Telthen Virnehn specifically to show you we had none?'

'How would you know of Felassan?' Briala asked, trying, but failing to keep her voice level. Veldrin chuckled, and regained her seat.

'Well,' she responded, in mock cheer, 'let me tell you some secrets that will cause the Southern courts to love me even less, Marquise. If any entertains the notion that I defeated Solas on my own, or counting solely on Tevinter's aid, they are mistaken; I took a step beyond what Keeper Telthen did. He merely imprisoned Imshael. I was possessed by him – not in the way in which one falls to weakness in a harrowing. I willingly invited him in, and yes, I used blood magic of a kind that has truly not been seen since the days of the Ancient Imperium.'

The other was too shocked for words. 'A Magister _and_ a maleficarum _…'_ she nonetheless managed to whisper.

'Neither word touches me in the way that you intend them to,' Veldrin calmly shrugged, 'and I shan't have righteous outrage from either you, your Queen or the corpse of the Chantry; the Divine herself has had the good grace to not speak of it to me, and I should not encourage you to do so, either, Marquise, because that very visitation is the reason why you are sitting here. Before Imshael cruelly showed me what truly happened to you in the Dales, you'd not have set foot in the Senate, let alone in this study.'

'Hmph,' Briala scoffed. 'I am delighted to have made such a strong impression upon first greeting…'

'Upon first greeting, no,' the other elf said. 'But let us say the fact that you misled that poor scullery maid – one of _your_ people, I might add - and left her trapped, open to accusations of spying or theft which could only lead to one punishment did not leave a lasting good impression. The ease with which you returned to Celene's bed, with naught but a mere trinket, which I found gathering dust in a safe – not in her nightstand, nor under her pillow, mind, but buried amid piles of other junk, to remind you of your past passions…'

'Ah yes,' the Marquise laughed, this time in open malice, 'the perpetual accusation! Oh, how I have betrayed the people by fighting for a position that granted me some _actual_ power!'

'An accusation you were not so shy to fling into my face the moment that you set foot in here, Marquise. From one person who has learned to hold her nose in human company to another, I would suggest restraint.' Veldrin responded. 'There are at least three other Dalish clans in the Exalted Plains, Briala; I've personally encountered two that did not share Virnehn's insanity, and did not tie my human companions to the wheels of their aravels for a laugh…what purpose, then, was Felassan serving when he selected _them,_ the dangerously mad ones, to take you and Celene to?'

'We now know all too well _whose_ purpose he was serving,' Briala sneered. 'Clan Virnehn had both Imshael and the eluvian, and Fen'Harel needed the pathways.'

'Oh yes, of course,' the Magistra softly uttered. 'But why were _you_ needed? Felassan could have taken you to a peaceful clan, not revealed Celene's identity, then gone on to complete Solas's work. Thousands upon thousands of Elvhen bastards like Michel du Chevin walk the land, and Imshael had a lie and a bribe in store for every soul, human or Elvhen, that crossed his path. Why you, _da'len_?'

'Don't call me that,' Briala said, her voice suddenly small. 'You're not…You have no right to call me that.'

'Apologies,' Veldrin responded, sounding truly contrite and giving the other pause. 'I think…' she followed, her voice dropping to a whisper, 'I believe he took you with him because he needed to rid you of the illusion that the Dalish could save the city elves. Like his master before him, he needed to tear statues down, because…'

'…the mightiest of statues cast the mightiest of shadows, and in those shadows, nothing grows anew,' the Orlesian whispered, in her turn. 'We could not help ourselves, while lulled in the dream that you would someday…He wasn't serving Fen'Harel,' she quietly said. 'He was teaching _me._ And he paid dearly for it. _'_

'Ar abelas,' the Magistra said, respectfully bowing her head. 'Felassan saw people, where Solas merely saw husks, and Solas himself despised us all, Dalish or city born.'

Briala laughed. 'Yes, as a robber might, after relieving one of one's purse, beating them down in the muck, then mocking them for being a dirty, penniless beggar.'

'An apt analogy, I fear, but some of it, Briala, is upon us all, not merely him. It was us who started seeing two nations instead of one _people_ , and it was _us_ who drew those lines – if I could speak for all the Dalish, I would apologise so deeply to _your_ people; far easier it was to call the city born cowards for having surrendered, than to admit that we could do nothing for you, or even for ourselves…'

'So, have we truly lost, now, Keeper Lavellan?' the Orlesian asked, all her masks gone and her eyes raw with life, anger, and, above all, hope. 'All of these ladders that we have climbed, all of these humans we have…endured, has it all been for naught?'

'It's hardly useful to be a battering ram if there's no army to follow once the gates have fallen.' Veldrin said softly. 'And neither of us has an army. How many of us are there left in the South? Twenty five thousand? Twenty?'

'Eight,' Briala curtly replied. 'We'll never rebuild numbers. Celene's heart, I swear to you, is not in this threat I bring, but she prizes her crown - she must be seen and heard making it. I too prize her crown for fear of worse, as I always have…despite…'

Veldrin shook her head. 'No, don't. I know you treasure Celene for herself alone as well, and I am hardly one to advise on choice of lovers.'

She sighed. 'The truth of the matter,' Vel said, slowly, looking down to her hands, 'is that I understand the South's concerns, but can do little to alleviate them; I do not know how to mend the veil, and I have sadly come fear that the only person who does know how to is _very_ unwilling to share that information at this point.'

'It is not only the veil that is of great concern,' Briala reminded, keeping her voice low. She could, however, not refrain from smirking in displeasure when Veldrin outright laughed.

'Well, Marquise,' the Magistra said, 'that is one problem I definitely do not know how to address, and for many reasons, don't even wish to.'

'You understand that once this is conveyed, you will be proclaimed a traitor outright.'

'I thought you too, understood that I am not vying for court approval anymore, and I see not how anyone who has no oath of fealty from me can proclaim me a traitor.' Vel snappily responded, meeting the other elf's gaze. 'Tevinter's dragons are the only means by which I can keep the nations of Southern Thaedas with their feet to the flames, a leverage that I have told you I shall not be shy in applying. The only thing I… _we_ …still stand to lose are the people, both yours and mine, and the only way _we_ will survive, as a race, is if Arlathan survives with no human interference.'

It was Briala's turn to laugh. 'And you think that the Old Gods would allow that? The very same Old Gods that helped the Shem crush Elvhenan?'

'The reason for their spite against _the people_ is chained to a post in a dark cellar,' Vel answered, in a calm voice. 'Their spite against the people is fading – I do not see why they would not allow an Elvhen nation; it will be, after all, the first nation to worship them fully, after Tevinter.'

'And that sits well with you,' the Orlesian said, in a low growl.

'My indifference cannot be more poignant.' Veldrin said, dryly. 'I have held lies and falsities as faith before, and so has everyone else, human or Elvhen. You'll forgive me if I have come to see religion of any kind as no more than a tool of social control and a political sledgehammer, and, truth be told, Briala, I rather prefer Gods whose first divine mandate is not ordering an Exalted March.'

'Which they could have,' she followed, in an equally dry tone, 'against Arlathan itself, or against the Chantry – and still, the only unrest we are having, in Tevinter at least, is a rather tame and, by past standards, boring Magisterium debate on whether a woman can take over the reins of the Maker's temple in Tevinter.'

'By boring you imply that the pompous fools are not killing each other in droves,' Briala said.

'Not on a regular scale, no.' Veldrin shrugged. 'Stubbornness may yet claim some casualties, but, in the end…The Chantry will be united, and will survive. No,' she reiterated, leaning back in her chair, 'the Old Gods are not my priority, as they, at least, have not made the annihilation of our people their priority.'

'Why would they have?' the Orlesian inquired, cranking her nose. 'Only a madman slaughters all its cattle all at once, and dead oxen pull no carts.'

'True,' the Magistra conceded, with a wry smile, 'but there is nothing stopping them from raiding Arlathan and bringing it to Tevinter's heel, either. As your enlightened leaders have noted, the Imperium is in quite dire straits without its… _oxen_. And still, they made no move thus far – I'd call that hope, though I assume there'll be a price attached to it.'

'There always is,' Briala dispassionately remarked. 'I…' she carefully continued, 'am not convinced; you have thrown your lot in with Tevinter entirely, and the Archon is wily; why else would he so hastily push for Divine Victoria to have both chantries at her call? She is, after all, the only one who could call an Exalted March against the Imperium. With his so called generosity, he ties her hands, and with his dragons, he bides for time.'

'The Gods could not care less about an Exalted March,' Veldrin responded, with a subdued chuckle. 'Not even if Orlais, Nevarra and Ferelden all marched together…'

'You truly think them Gods, then?' Briala asked, in great disgust.

'For all practical purposes, they might as well be…Your Queen and your masked empire paid little heed to my warnings of Solas' true powers; these two are not inferior to him. In fact…but never mind,' she stopped herself, waving her hand to change discourse. 'The other reason for which I would not make enemies of the Old Gods is that they remain, in my view, the only ones who might be able to mend the veil, in some future. I fear that if they had known how to, they might already have done it…'

The Orlesian shook her head. 'Why would they? They cannot care whether the veil is there or not.'

'Not in the same way that we do, no,' Veldrin thoughtfully nodded. 'But there is danger still beyond the weakened barrier, danger far greater than the Imperium. The Old Gods found a way out of their prisons, so _others_ might as well, sooner or later. As intimidating as they might be to the continent, they will not present such a danger to further seven of their kind…'

'Of their kind? Briala frowned. 'Of their kind…' she repeated, mulling over the words for a few seconds, before her eyes started to glow with equal measures of disbelief and understanding. 'You cannot mean…'

Vel nodded, and even all Briala's practiced control could not prevent her from darting to her feet. 'You cannot mean…' she gasped, 'you cannot mean what I think you…'

The Magistra nodded again. 'Our legends always said that Fen'Harel tricked both the Forgotten Ones and the Evanuris into their respective cages. What we got wrong was that we always thought these to have been simultaneous events – they were not, or at least not in the way in which we regard time. Perhaps not even in the way that the first people regard time, for we remembered the Creators well, and fully forgot the others, or simply believing legends that, with every generation, floated further and further from the truth…'

'And you believe that _these_ …' Briala whispered.

'I don't believe,' Vel curtly said. 'I know.'

'Oh heavens,' the Marquise breathed, dropping back to her seat. 'So even _this_ threat can be traced back to the _people_ , in some way! If this gets out…Does Tevinter even know?' she feverishly asked.

'A very restricted few do, yes,' Veldrin said. 'Even this gives me hope, however – they risk nothing by a full reveal, yet that would spark a civil war the likes of which the Imperium has not experienced since Andraste.'

'Of course,' Briala muttered. 'Not many will accept that all this time they've worshipped the first people…and obviously,' she laughed, an insane glint in her eyes, 'the South will now have cause to blame _the people_ for the Blights, as well…why tell me this?' she asked, looking to Veldrin in open fury.

'Because you know what will befall our kind if this truly gets out, Marquise,' the Magistra said, kindly. 'You are, therefore, the best custodian of this knowledge, and I shan't have Orlesian agents stumbling upon it by chance; while others of your countrymen might see it as a good way of destabilising Tevinter and giving the Southern nations room to breathe, you are only one who understands that this would be the final nail in the Elvhen nation's coffin. The first of our people may be extremely hard to kill, but we, alas, are not. Should any of yours look too deeply into this, you'll point them elsewhere.'

'You do grasp that all it takes to undo _us_ is Leliana, if she comes by this knowledge,' Briala said, returning to herself, but nonetheless running her fingers over her intricate hairdo, without pulling a single hair out of place.

'United, and with the Chantry at our side, we can control for that,' Vel thoughtfully replied.

'I am unsure that we both understand the same thing by that phrase, Keeper Lavellan,' the Orlesian said, drawing her lips thin – for the first time, Veldrin was taken aback, for this was neither what she had expected, nor was it something that she'd wanted, in her heart of hearts.

'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,' she non-comittaly said. 'Let's hope we shan't have to…Solas' path to Elvhen restoration has ended, Marquise,' Veldrin continued, biting her lower lip, 'but _ours_ is just starting and it is up to _us_ to see how far along it we can travel. We're not of the same nation, Briala, but we are of the same people; if there is a way to preserve Arlathan, and at least partially restore ourselves, we should perhaps not be enemies.'

'Although we shall never be friends,' Briala answered, with a swift nod.

'Time will tell,' Vel shrugged.

Briala looked away, and breathed in deeply. 'You've given me nothing that I can write back to Celene except a threat. This dance,' she sighed, shifting her glance to the ceiling, 'has definitely not gone my way. We've never truly met, before this day, have we Keeper Lavellan?' she softly uttered.

'But it is good that we have met, this day,' Veldrin responded, with an honest shrug.

'I wish to trust you so,' the Orlesian said, swallowing dry, 'but while my heart so wishes, my head tells me you are a snake in the tall grass which sways in a storm's wind, and under better cover calculates its strike.'

Veldrin laughed.

'Believe me or test me, Marquise, I care not. It's not as if you had a choice. Think on the words you share with your Empress, but do remind her that maybe the survival of _her_ race, even under Tevinter's _wing_ might be preferable to its annihilation. Which is, I swear to you, what will befall them if the ones _we_ thought our Creators will come free of their cages too…It's also worth remembering that it was Celene, not I, to murder your mother for sport and affirmation.' Veldrin grinned. 'Just so we remember where we _actually_ stand, in terms of friends.'

Briala stood, giving no sign of having registered the painful, yet truthful aside.

'I shall need you to remain in Minrathous,' Veldrin spoke. 'Our people will need you to remain here…I need no worded answer from you,' the Magistra said. 'If you stay, I shall prove myself. If you leave, it will become more difficult. This is the moment that Felassan raised you for, Briala. He paid a dear enough price. Believe me or test me; prove he was right, or show yourself that he was wrong.'

The Orlesian curtsied gracefully.

'I've come for honesty, and I have no way to fault you in delivering it. I am grateful,' she uttered, all of her masks firmly in place. 'The Orlesian Empire is grateful, too; your words, all of your words shall be faithfully relayed. I truly feel graced.'

'Don't mention it, cousin,' Veldrin replied, smiling.

Still, her hand on the door handle, Briala hesitated.

'Tell me, _Magistra_ ,' she asked, with her back turned. 'Did your _vhenan_ kill Felassan himself, or did he leave it to another?'

'Solas trusts none,' Veldrin said, clenching her jaws, and feeling acid tears rising in her eyes. 'He did it himself.'

Briala looked over her shoulder, her eyes laden with tears, in turn.

'I'm glad he lives only to suffer,' she said, opening the door, then quietly closing it behind her, and once the door closed, Veldrin rested her forehead in her hand and pointlessly wept, enough, she thought, for both herself and the Orlesian who could not weep a single tear, unless she locked herself within her bath chamber, in this foreign, alien, and hostile city.

As she wept, though, Veldrin Pavus, born Lavellan, made arrangements for the Marquise's long term stay amid the humans that she hated more than those of Orlais; a place, she thought, where if Briala needed to shed her heavy masks and let her heart ache, she could do so within her own chamber. A place where Briala would not be spied upon, or pitied. A place where she'd be feared and respected.

Later, as the sun hid behind Lusacan's figure, such a request for leave to remain in Minrathous came to her, perfectly worded, and sealed, with not a teardrop to mar the penmanship – a letter that demanded just such a place as Veldrin had thought of.

She dispatched her letters in turn, and watched the dragons stretch their wings.

'We are the last of the Elvhen,' she whispered to herself. 'Never again shall we submit.'

* * *

For those who have not dabbled in DA lore as much as we have, Felassan is a character from Patrick Weeks' Masked Empire, which is the back story of Briala and Celene. I, Abstract, loved the book, and would encourage you to buy it and read it. I read it after Trespasser, which made it even better, because, well, Solas is _there_ , everywhere, without making a single appearance or saying a single word. Without wishing to spoil, it is Felassan that gives Briala access to the eluvian network, thus betraying Solas in the worst possible way. We learn a lot more of Fen'Harel from Felassan's tales than we do in the game proper. Beautiful novel short, it is Felassan who is swayed by the idea that humans and elves can coexist; he is Briala's mentor, a thoroughly lovable guy, and well...

In the one unnamed short appearance Solas makes, he kills his own agent without a word. Good reason, I find, for Briala to hate Solas' guts, and Vel's as well, as a side dish.

Everything else in this piece that sounds really strange (like Celene killing Briala's mum) also pertains to the Masked Empire.

* * *

...and that convo did not go quite the way Calpernia hoped it would, did it? 'Cuz these ladies may be like two cats in a bag, but they do have a common purpose. Once they are out of the bag, that is. While still inside the bag, they bloody hate each other.

Thank you for reading and commenting, we really do wish you would comment more,

Abstract & IvI


	43. A Sparkler in the dark

_In the long hours of the night_

 _When hope has abandoned me,_

 _I will see the stars and know_

 _[Some] Light remains._

 _ **Trials 1:2**_

* * *

Dorian braced for the damp, the cold and the darkness, but above all, he braced for the smell… Unlike what he'd assumed, however, there was no smell but that of damp and moss, which he found odd; it had, after all been over two months, and he very much doubted even small mercies, such as basic dignity, would be awarded to one so hated.

Not by Cassius, in any event.

The dragons themselves had shown less personal interest in their prisoner than Dorian had initially assumed they would, but then, the Magister told himself, cautiously lowering the delicate handkerchief he had been holding over half his face, the dragons needed nothing from Solas other than knowing he was, indeed, in pain, and Cassius himself was just the blunt instrument by which that was accomplished. Searching for Arlathan gave Cassius a purpose and even further reason to be diligent – if that was even needed, Dorian thought, realising that, in the end, it was not the damp, the cold or even the lack of smell that he should have braced for. It was the mere sight; it took all of his self determination not to turn away.

He wished he hadn't come, he knew it, and yet…

Dorian had not spoken to Lexi since they had last parted, before the madness on Seheron. He'd written – nothing of what was on his mind, of course; the danger of letters being opened was too great, even in normal times. He'd simply laid out a few lines in the code they shared to let his lover know that he would not be in contact for a few weeks, and told him not to be overly concerned if correspondence was sporadic. Not that those lines might have distracted Lexi from the fact that the letter had included a sealed, authenticated copy of Dorian's will, but in that too, there had been little choice, for the chances of the dowager lady Pavus enforcing Dorian's wishes in what regarded Veldrin, if she returned from Seheron and he didn't, were absolutely nil.

He had not written again after their return from the island, once more, because it did not match their normal routine: news of the expedition's success and Solas' capture had reached the most remote corners of the Imperium, and extra correspondence was no more than a pointless risk. Lexi would know his lover was back in Minrathous; Veldrin's swearing in ceremony would give him a solid excuse to visit the capital, and...

And, oh Gods, Dorian thought, still not finding the courage to intently look to Solas, what? Clear the air?

He'd tried, for weeks now, to tell himself that the worm of suspicion that had been chewing at his heart ever since he'd spoken to Imshael on Seheron was just a demon's wicked play, no more than a distraction. For a short while he had succeeded, and forced his thoughts to cling to immediate reality, on one action at a time; he'd even felt ashamed when, on a particularly dark night he'd succumbed to temptation and tried to reach Lexi on their crystal. Lexi had not answered – there could have been a million reasons, a million _good_ reasons for it, and Dorian had counted them all once, and twice, and then once more, as he lay awake hour after hour…In the end, dreaded dawn had come as a blessing.

Lexi would be at Veldrin's ceremony. They would make love, and speak of all of it; Lexi would laugh his doubts away, then crack terrible jokes about them over breakfast with Vel, and Dorian would be embarrassed, but relieved, and all would be well. All would be well – a simple edifice of foolish hope, one that was built during the day only to be torn asunder during the loneliness of night.

But Lexi had not come, and it had only been then that Dorian had finally admitted to himself that each time he had to push Imshael's words out of his mind, he did so with waning strength and faith, and that with each day that passed his hope, too, had been getting frailer.

For days after, he'd sought Lexi on the communication crystal hundreds, if not thousands of times; its dull glow, and the deathly silence from the other side had filled him with rage, despair and finally, fear, though fear of what, he still could not fully define. Sleepless nights had started lining one after the other, now filled not with _good_ reasons, but with evil ghosts, and terrible, dark thoughts that neither wine or brandy could lay to rest and which he did not have the heart to share with Vel. Whatever passed for Gods knew she had plenty of ghosts herself, and he could not bear the thought of burdening her with another, not until _he_ fully understood and accepted what he was burdening her with.

It was impossible that this had been Lexi trying to take distance from his lover; not like this. A man who loved could not have been so cruel as to stay silent for so long, while a man out of love would have no reason to torment one he no longer cared for. Lexi must have been hiding for different reasons, and those could not have been his wife or family – even in their earlier days, when they had needed far more caution then they now did, they had been letters, or signs, or mere, brief flickers of the crystal; there'd always been fear, but it had never bested them. Not without shame of each other feeding it…No.

Lexi was not scared. He was ashamed, and Dorian dreaded, dreaded his own suspicions of why to such an extent that he thought the truth preferable to even their confirmation.

He needed to be here. He needed to know, even if…

Dorian finally dared look up and focus.

For one who had reportedly taken neither food nor water during his captivity, Solas showed no sign of emaciation, and had clearly not soiled himself, yet that was where the bearable stopped. He was hanging by his elbows some six feet off the ground, his breath so pained and shallow that Dorian could only assume Cassius had thus left him hours earlier; the entire left hand side of his face was a yellowing bruise, and though the elf was keeping both his eyes closed, it was highly doubtful that he could open his left one even if he wanted to.

Fresh red welts and equally fresh burn marks, lined in black, that looked as though someone had been entertaining themselves by putting hot embers out on another's skin lined and dotted Solas' chest and shoulders.

'Oh, Gods,' Dorian whispered. 'Let him down,' he growled, towards the guards.

'Magister Cassius said…' one of the three soldiers dared.

'And now I am saying differently,' Dorian snapped. 'In a contest of authority, what the Magister who is here in the flesh beats what the other Magister said six hours ago. Let him down.'

They did, with slowness caused by confusion as well as contempt for an order they clearly did not respect but could not refuse; Solas tried to hold himself straight once his bare feet touched the ground, yet his body was in worse shape than it appeared, for he could not sustain his weight, and he staggered, then grunted in pain as the slip once more tugged at his already tortured shoulders.

'All the way down,' Dorian breathed, turning away for he did not want to see Solas on his knees, and wished to spare himself the sight or a few heartbeats longer. 'Key,' he said, extending his hand towards the soldiers of the guard.

This time, his order was not only meant with confusion and contempt. It was met with an outright hateful gleam, so Dorian stared back in open hatred of his own; judging by the looks on these men's faces, Cassius had chosen his thugs well – experience, most likely. These were not men following orders, they were adept at the tasks assigned not only by practice, but by talent and unbridled enthusiasm.

'Key,' he repeated, snapping his fingers and smiling.

'Magister Cassius will be informed,' the guard sourly said; he nonetheless relinquished the key to Solas' metal cage.

'Run along and inform him, then,' Dorian said, still smiling. 'If you can actually run in that metal calamity you are wearing, of course – close the door behind you as well. We'd hate for the…'

He sighed, and turned to look at Solas, for as long as he could stand the sight. It was brief.

'…better endowed, clearly fit, better fed and watered and obviously unbound elf to overpower a Magister and escape, now, would we? He is definitely going to that, with the ten stone worth of chains he is carrying. In other words,' Dorian hissed, 'dismissed.'

As the guards barred the door behind themselves, but none set off running; Dorian drew a deep breath. Maybe, he thought, as the bar fell, locking him in with the danger that Solas no longer was, some of them relished the thought of two people they held hatred for killing each other, in a locked dungeon.

Or maybe they imagined the deviant had other plans for the elf, ones which would be amusing to watch; the small slit in the now shut door was still open.

'Solas,' he whispered.

The elf opened his right eye, and truly worked on his left, to no avail.

'Dorian Pavus,' the elf said. 'Are you here to take from me what the other Magister could not?'

'No,' Dorian softly said.

For whatever Veldrin said, the human thought, there was a significant part of Dorian that was glad him and Solas had never truly stared into each other's eyes. As wretched as his conditions now were, there was an intensity to Solas' gaze that Dorian did not think he could ever grow accustomed to – looking into Solas' eyes simply made the human feel that he was under stern scrutiny, and that whatever test he was expected to pass, he would forever fail.

'You do understand that after you leave, they will string me up even higher just to reclaim their territory, do you not? You did not do this for me.' Solas said, pronouncing the absolutely expected verdict.

Dorian held himself in check.

'Right,' he said, arching an eyebrow. 'I ordered them to stop torturing you before my eyes because altruism is the ultimate form of egoism, and all that rousing music. I admit to my own hypocrisy, and praise your understanding of human nature...Gods, Solas,' he sighed, 'some things never change.'

'Not for the best, I would agree,' the elf weakly said; he'd been too daring with his breath, and a punishing cough ripped through his chest, bringing stinging tears to his eyes. He turned his face to the side, yet there was no hiding and no respite – Dorian bit his lower lip and looked away, allowing the other as much privacy in pain as he still could.

It was only when the cough stopped, and Solas's breath evened to short and painful gasps that he dared step forward to unlock the cage, and knelt to match the elf's height. Silently, he offered his hip flask, and in equal silence, Solas pressed his chin into his shoulder, in stubborn refusal.

'Please,' Dorian whispered; the elf met his glance and coldly sustained it. 'Please, Solas,' the human repeated. 'I'll think no less of you, and you'll have even further reason to think less of me.'

The was a crack then in Solas' icy gaze, a barely there upwards turn in the corner of his lips; he sighed and took a small sip of the flask, scarcely enough to slick his tongue, Dorian thought, yet it seemed to significantly ease his breath. He nodded, and shifted as far away from the human as his bindings allowed - understanding that this was truly the extent of kindness that would be accepted, Dorian tiredly sat back, leaning his shoulders against the bars of the cage and taking a plentiful mouthful of the drink.

'How do you…' he began to ask; he cut himself off, and took another mouthful. 'How do you survive this?'

The elf tilted his head to the side. 'The workings of my body will forever remain a mystery to your kind. Alas,' he said, his voice oddly returned to smoothness as well as lurking irony, 'without my magic, my body has grown to be somewhat of a mystery to myself, but…The only part that's of my doing is my not needing to be fed. The rest is catered to by your compatriots, with timely healing.'

'What do you wish of me, Magister Pavus?' Solas asked. 'If ascertaining my condition was your goal, you would have sent another. This is a native talent of your homeland that you seem to lack.'

'Sending a minion to smell one's dead?' Dorian shot back, frowning.

'A strong stomach,yes,' Solas replied.

'Can we _not_ do this?' the human sighed. 'It is unworthy, for both of us.'

'True,' the elf tiredly admitted. 'I apologise,' he whispered, leaning his head back on the post and closing his eyes. 'It is just…' he followed, in a soft tone, 'that once you have, indeed, offered unexpected comfort, my own greed for it leads to wanting more – I am thinking all of the things I am saying to you, and hiding them is…unpleasant.'

'You have a compulsion to be rude?' Dorian asked.

'No,' Solas answered. 'But the magical dome you have just willingly stepped under compels me to be truthful; needless to say, not all my thoughts in your regard are flawlessly polite. I would rather save my endurance avoiding answers I truly do not wish to provide, than on repressing other, minor truths.'

'No more alcohol for you, then,' Dorian said, nonetheless acquiescing with a nod.

'A cruel taunt, if ever there was one,' the elf half-shrugged. 'Does the cage not affect you, Dorian?'

The Magister considered the question for a moment. 'No,' he cautiously answered. 'I felt nothing, but I have been nothing but truthful to my thoughts. You'd naturally assumed otherwise, of course,' the human dryly noted.

'I am understandably cautious, as I still do not know what I can assist you with.'

'Nothing,' Dorian replied. 'I simply came here to gloat…'

Pain's steely claws gripped before the thought unwound in full; he'd spoken quickly, shooting out the lie before he'd truly considered why he was lying – the instinct to test Solas' words had been as childish as the punishment had been swift. 'Fuck,' Dorian breathed, clutching at his chest. 'Fuck. Maferath's balls, this _hurts!_ '

'You were warned,' Solas said, nonetheless narrowing his eye in curiosity.

'I was indeed,' Dorian whimpered; the searing pain immediately subsided to a throb. He took another deep drink of his flask, and did not ask the other how he survived it all again, because, despite it all, he truly did not wish to know. 'I assume this means no more alcohol for me, either.' He said, looking to the barely visible barrier above.

'Not if you have information you dearly do not wish to impart,' Solas said, softly.

'I cannot think of anything I know that you do not.' The human said, bringing one knee to his chest, and resting his elbow on it. 'How did we get to this place,' he sighed, sorrowfully shaking his head.

'You came down the stairs, and I was more or less dragged,' the elf said, with a sigh of his own.

Dorian bitterly scoffed. 'Does Magister Cassius take well to your sense of humour?'

'Not at all; it makes him fly into an insensate rage, which presents the notable advantage that his diligent henchmen render me unconscious faster, and, if I am particularly fortunate, for longer.' Solas replied, in a neutral tone.

'Lucky for you Leliana threw a strop and evaporated,' the human muttered. 'Perhaps not necessarily for you, but…for Abelas, I guess? It wasn't a question,' he hastily said, as the elf unexpectedly cringed, and bit back a soft groan. 'It wasn't a question,' Dorian repeated; this time, he did not need to look in Solas' eyes to know that he'd failed.

'We would have killed you,' he wistfully said; it was not much of an apology, and so, silence stretched coldly between them. 'We would have,' Dorian whispered at long length. 'I am…truthfully sorry we failed, condemning you to this. I am very sure,' he tiredly followed, 'that you are sitting there, thinking that I have come because I needed _your_ acknowledgment of that basic fact to sleep at night.'

'I am merely sitting here thinking that you should not have come,' Solas responded. He took one laboured, deep breath. 'The paths that led us all to clash were all the paths I set, and I've no need of the cage's compulsion to understand you take no pleasure in this, for I do not remember you as a cruel man, and I cannot, in my worst nightmares, imagine Veldrin by your side if you were one. For a second time,' he said, lowering his glance, 'you spared Abelas…'

'For all the good that does,' Dorian said.

'Perhaps,' the elf admitted. 'It still shows that we attacked and you defended as best you could, and your intent was not to slaughter all in your path. Merely defeat me. Yet, Dorian, given that we both know you are not cruel, and you have not come to rejoice in my suffering, it stands to reason that you have a purpose for being here. Something you wish or need to know. I…' Solas said, his voice cracking as he fought to stifle another bout of cough. 'I can only forewarn you that whatever you think you can obtain from me shan't be surrendered; if you are unwilling to cause pain or witness it, you should retire. Asking about things of which I shall not speak will damage you more than it does me.'

'…so _please_ don't ask?' the human muttered, frowning.

'You will accomplish nothing but debase us both; I see no reason to plead with you to accept the obvious,' the elf said; there was a barely perceptible tremor in his voice, though, as if he had genuinely expected Dorian to press…and, the human thought, trying to not look at his old companion's injuries too intently, reasons for that might have abounded even if he and the elf had ever truly been anything resembling friends.

He took a deep breath in his turn. 'You're right,' Dorian said. 'I do want to know something, something that only you…'

'I believe that I have made my stance clear.'

'It's not…it's not what you imagine that I wish to know.' The human rushed to interrupt. 'It's deeply personal, and I swear to you I will only ask once – if you do not wish to answer, or think that there is an ulterior motive to my question, I will not ask again…Thank fuck for this cage,' Dorian said, shaking his head. 'But for it, you'd not believe that if I paid you.'

Solas dryly chuckled, then painfully caught his breath. 'Oh, that I would believe: so,' he said, 'the human who took the woman I love for a wife is here because he needs a _personal_ favour? One he believes that I shall grant for two more sips of brandy?'

'I did not fish her out of a bucket, Solas, nor did I steal her from your pocket. I did not _take_ her.' Dorian angrily replied. 'I made her an offer of marriage, which she accepted, probably due in no small measure to the fact that _you_ disappeared into the sunset, gloriously planning to destroy us all, and having ripped her arm off at the shoulder, after oh so graciously tearing out her heart. I swear,' the human said, tiredly rising to his feet, and turning away, 'of all the world's mysteries, old and new, what _my_ Vel ever saw in you is the one I shall never unravel.'

'Your Veldrin,' Solas softly echoed.

'Yes,' Dorian responded, pointing to the ring on his finger. 'My Vel – because if you could just have loved her more than you hated everyone else, she would, doubtlessly, still be yours, for as incomprehensible as that may be.'

'Does she think that…' the elf whispered. 'That I loved her less than I hated everyone else?'

'Evidence of the contrary is very thin on the ground,' Dorian dryly replied, though clenched teeth. 'And is this _you_ asking me for a favour, in turn?'

'I never meant to hurt her,' Solas softly said. 'She must still know that.'

'No, she does not,' Dorian curtly answered. 'What she _does_ know is that you used her to fix one of your many monumental personal mistakes, then intended to kill her - I am sure you mean to further tell me it would have been painless, and wish that _I_ would tell her that, in turn. As if she would still believe it, Solas, now that you have thoroughly lost. Now, that you've made us all thoroughly lose…'

The door behind him burst open, which was, to Dorian, all for the best; he truly had no wish to find how cruel the other man's pointless and cruel stubbornness could turn him, and he had already gone further than he intended – Vel was not his, not in the way that Solas would doubtlessly register the statement, but he'd indeed spoken the words in revenge, and he did not regret them - for, in the end, punching a wall could only hurt one's fists, and not the wall itself.

'Did I not tell you not to bother…' Dorian nonetheless said to the armed and armoured men, who marched in cadence through the open door.

The leader of the contingent eyed him coldly, then smiled wide. 'My orders come from a higher place than yours, Magister Pavus,' and then, all in a second, he ordered Solas to stand.

Solas could not, though he did try; standing outside the physical cage as well as the magical one, Dorian looked over his shoulder and swallowed dry, as the man of his country and heritage lifted the elf up by lodging their iron clad fingers under his chin, to prevent him from breathing. There was no way of hiding either pain or humiliation now, nor a way of hiding from them – not unless Dorian followed his first and strongest instinct and walked away before he saw too many things he feared he'd not be able to forget…or hide from Veldrin for too long…

And still he could not move, frozen in place by equal, crushing terror and fascination. These men were not here to question, not that the elf could have answered any even if he'd broken and wished to; there was no point to the brutality of the hold beyond brutality itself. These were not Cassius' men – indeed, their mandate must have been _much_ higher.

The dragons promised he would suffer, Dorian dully thought. And they are seeing to it that he does.

'You'll kill him,' he tonelessly said; the man who held Solas aloft did not loosen his grip. He simply looked to Dorian over his shoulder with an expression that made the Magister shudder.

Not because it had been hate filled or even the blank gaze of a mindless brute; Dorian might have preferred that a thousand times over. Instead, the man's eyes were clear, his glance intelligent. Cold. Professional.

'On the contrary,' the torturer responded, calmly. 'We are ascertaining that he is not dead, or even close to it. And you _are_ grateful for it, aren't you, rabbit?' he followed, finally setting the elf down, but roughly pushing him back as he so did. He'd employed enough force to knock even a healthy man twice Solas' size unconscious, and, for a moment, Dorian could not decide whether he hoped that Solas would, indeed, faint, or feared what more would happen if he did.

Clearly showing that Dorian's latter fear was more than justified, the prisoner desperately fought to remain standing – despite all odds, it looked as if he might even have succeeded. It was all too much though, even for him; the gathered weakness, the lack of air and the strength of the blow he'd just taken caused him to stagger, and Dorian's heart skipped a beat; for all the anger he'd felt at the elf's arrogance just a few seconds before, he truly did not wish to see him on his knees. Not before these…

The armoured man struck the elf across his already bruised face, steadying him, but not for kindness; it was merely readying him for a second, even more powerful slap – a weak whimper and a thin trickle of blood escaped Solas lips before he could bite back either. He nonetheless resumed his struggle to stand upright, and this time he succeeded by willpower alone.

His captor smiled, and once more placed his iron-gloved hand under Solas' chin; willpower alone did not help this time, and the elf visibly flinched at the open threat.

'I asked you a polite question, rabbit, and I expect a polite answer.' the man said. 'We would not wish for Magister Pavus to think that I interrupted your sharing of boudoir tales of his wife simply because I would not find them entertaining – the life and times of an exotic and _well-travelled_ woman always are.'

He squeezed, not enough to fully cut off Solas' breath again, yet just enough to reduce it to a series of pained gasps. Dorian swallowed dry.

'You might wish to let him breathe if you're to get an answer,' he said, still not knowing what inflexion to lend his voice.

'I was merely jesting, mostly for your benefit,' the torturer shrugged. 'I do not need him to answer, as long as we both understand the rules. Which we do, as they are masterfully simple, and I have some skill at explaining.' He let go of the elf and fully turned to Dorian, not before casting a warmly amused glance over his shoulder, to see if Solas' minute strength still held. 'It is my task to assure myself that the stubborn critter is well enough to respond to Magister Cassius' attentions, and lives a long and occasionally healthy life.'

The man clenched his hands behind his back. 'I thus decide when healing is needed and how much, and, in addition, assess how close he's come to escaping his just punishment by means of his own making.'

'Like starving himself,' Dorian said, feeling his own stomach turn at the combination of the man's smooth, matter of-fact and almost pleasant delivery, and Solas' barely audible, tortured breath.

'Indeed,' the other nodded. 'I judge him fit to continue his entertaining little rebellion if he can still stand to my count of ten. He knows that if he does not comply to this reasonable trade-off, measures will be taken…'

'What measures?' the Magister breathed, before he could stop himself.

'Measures such as shoving food in him until he swallows, and holding his head under water until he drinks.' The armoured man curtly said. 'I believe,' he added, casting one more glance at Solas, who had nowhere to hide from the words and his own wretched position but behind his eyelids, and thus held his eyes tightly closed, 'that whatever he is, the rabbit is not stupid; we only needed to apply _measures_ twice before he understood he won't be spared them, and only once needed be told that future measures may not entail food or water…As I have said, we understand each other.'

Dorian clenched his teeth, and looked away.

'Then,' he reasoned, trying to keep his voice level, 'your good work here should be done; he's stood far longer than a count of ten.'

For the first time, the torturer grinned wide. 'I did not say _a_ count of ten, Magister Pavus. I said _my_ count of ten, and I have not begun counting.'

The nausea Dorian felt returned with a vengeance, and he guessed he must have paled, for the grin on the unknown man's face widened – not enough for the Magister to outright accuse the other of enjoying toying with him as well as his prisoner, but just enough for Dorian to know that each further second he spent here was ill spent. There was no help that he could lend, no more than making himself scarce, and giving the other good reason to put more of a performance than they had already intended – he sought a last glance at Solas before turning, but at the very last second thought better of it.

The last thing the elf would welcome now was pity. _His_ pity…Especially after all that he had said on Vel's account; it had not been a lie, Dorian thought, finding that his feet would not carry him far outside the door. Not all of it, he repeated to himself, leaning against the wall and pressing his fingers to his forehead, but the whatever truth did lie in his words did not undermine how pointlessly cruel they seemed in retrospect.

Veldrin and Solas, Dorian thought as he heard the count of one, and pressed his eyes tightly closed, wishing that he could be able to equally shut out the sound of Solas' faint groan…Veldrin and Solas had truly left him baffled, since their very beginning in Haven - he'd been tempted to dismiss the obvious spark as one of those inexplicable follies of lust at first sight, though one that he'd been willing to bet Varric, would lead nowhere.

There was a count of four, followed by laughter; the Magister shakily breathed out, and swallowed his own bitterness at recalling.

Yes, he'd bet Varric that Vel and Solas would lead nowhere because he'd thought Solas too _shy_ for flirty, witty, expansive Vel. In hindsight, he should have trusted the dwarf's nose, and utterly mistrusted the ease with which Varric had taken the bet – it was easy to mistake quiet for shy, and Dorian might have been knocked over with a feather when he'd first seen the elves together in Skyhold.

Not because they'd been whispering complicitly, and not because they looked as though they'd been about to kiss, or had just done so, but because that first time, when curiosity had made him look down from his balcony, _shy_ Solas's hand had been so firmly planted on Veldrin's behind that one might thought it had been glued on. The elven man had sensed his presence and looked up, smiling in open, smug irony, and dispelling any notion that he'd not known about the bet or that others' miss read of his character caused anything but royal amusement; Veldrin had glanced up and winked, too, and Dorian could have sworn that had been the last time the two had looked away from each other, while in each other's presence…

He had paid Varric with no protest.

A count of six; the swift crack of a horsewhip. More laughter…no other sound. But this was Solas, Dorian told himself, and he had lasted thus far, otherwise the others would not have kept counting.

Just four more numbers up to ten, Dorian told himself, so resolutely that he all but quieted the fact that the time lapse between counts was anything but equal. That in fact, it was steadily increasing, and that, indeed, out of no more than desperate selfishness, he did wish Solas would give in.

Then, with equal selfishness, and for the first time in his life, Dorian wished he could have hated the elf. Enough to walk away. Enough to linger without so much terrible regret…

 _But this was Solas._

Solas, who knew good wine, good music, and utterly crushed everyone who was ever foolish enough to teach him a game within an hour of having learned it. Solas, who had a monumental temper, beliefs and patterns set in stone, and a wickedly dry sense of humour – who knew all there was to know about everything, who Vel looked up to without noticing that he only ever looked up to her.

Nine…

Solas, of the infuriating, snide put downs. Of the unshakeable superiority. Of the ancient, burning hatred.

Solas, still beloved to Vel. Solas, whose love was the one thing Veldrin had never doubted.

And I, Dorian thought, have cast cold shadows on the tiny, tiny corner where, in his darkest hour, this man could have found any trace of light or warmth.

 _I cannot stop them, Solas. But I will tell you the full truth of she and I, if for nothing else, then because I cannot leave your heart broken after I've stood here, letting them break your bones. You'd have learned it in any event if you had just…Hold on for one more count. Stubborn bastard, you have one count left in you; you always do, don't you…_

Nine and a half.

There was a thud, and a whimper, and chains rattled. Behind the door, Solas, who might have had one count left in him, did not sound as if he had half of one.

 _Gods fucking damn it._

He stood away from the wall and stalked in the chamber, as if possessed by a ghost, and this time he did not look away from Solas' eyes, nor from the fact that, in between counts, they'd put a dagger though the elf's thigh, just deep enough to harm, not deep enough to kill. Lashed, him and burned him, and…

Solas looked away in shame of weakness only he could see.

The torturer turned his head and smiled, in greeting.

'Welcome back, Magister Pavus,' he said. 'So keen to resume your previous conversation I see…Did we interrupt your tale sharing at a sensitive junction?'

'It's more of that I find your ability to count hopelessly lacking,' Dorian snarled. 'If you will…'

'What was it, I wonder?' the other said, taking no note. 'Pointers, perhaps? It is, I think, a bit of an urban legend that females of any kind have not been your main preoccupation until the gracious Magistra. It has to be that,' he amusedly added, 'because there is no other conceivable way in which an elf could compete with a human in that specific department…unless, of course…'

Swift as lightning, he turned and lodged one hand under the elf's chin and the other in his groin; Solas did not even have time to wince.

'Nine and three quarters,' the armoured human hissed – and this, Dorian numbly thought, he was enjoying, for he'd leaned in over his victim, and was attentively taking in the expression on Solas' features…the tears gathering in the corners of the elf's eyes…

'No,' he said, grinning, 'nothing special down there…'

'I've never slept with Veldrin Pavus, Lavellan nascita.' Dorian said, loudly and clearly; Solas' eye flew open, clouded with pain and incredulity, but still alight with desperate hope. 'Not once,' Dorian repeated, speaking to that hope alone. 'Not ever. I swear to you, Solas, never.'

The torturer looked over his shoulder, finally baring his teeth in feral fury when his captive's body escaped his double grip and Solas let himself relax.

Dorian felt joy.

'Ten, bastard,' he said, dryly. 'You're done.'

* * *

Hello, all - large first part of a two part chapter. Unusual posting day, but hey, we've just returned from holidays, we were happy to discover we like sailing, Greek wine, and come home to find we actually had...comments! Angithia and Zelest, we thank you for your kind words :) You will find our responses in the review section, as neither of you has signed in. (We do reply to every comment, but we can't do it properly/privately if you are not actually signed in to FF.)

This chapter accounts for many of a posting delay in the Abstract & IvI household, as we've had a lot of fun inventing Solas (let's be honest, we know close to nothing about the man). If one defines tragedy, head scratching, and mopey Abstract re-doing 40 pages 600 times as fun, of course.

* * *

Up Next - Well, Dorian is going to find out a bit more than we think he'd like to know.

Thank you for reading and commenting, and sticking with us,

Cheers,

Abstract & IvI


	44. Ancient

_Long was his silence, 'fore it was broken._  
 _"For you, song-weaver, once more I will try._  
 _To My children venture, carrying wisdom,_  
 _If they but listen, I shall return."_

 ** _Andraste 1:14_**

* * *

It was all dark and quiet, then, but for Solas' breath, which came in shallow whimpers; he'd slipped back to the floor, and leaned his head back on the pillar, with his eyes still closed…

Tiredly, Dorian sat down in turn.

'How do I help you now, old friend…' the human whispered; Solas struggled to open his eyes, and remained silent for a further few seconds, then, finally too exhausted to fight, he directed his glance to Dorian's flask.

The Magister stood, only to kneel by the other's side, and offered the drink – the elf took a sip, rinsed his mouth of blood, then spat to the side. After, however, he drank two honest mouthfuls, and sighed.

'Veldrin cannot learn the full extent of this,' Solas said, in a barely there voice. 'That is how you can help.'

Dorian nodded, and stepped back in his corner. 'Of course not,' he sighed, in turn. 'I said I did not sleep with her, not that I do not love her.'

'Thank you,' the elf whispered, once more closing his eyes.

'Gods, Solas,' Dorian said, shaking his head. 'How often…'

'Three or four times a day,' Solas responded. 'Depends on the frequency and intensity of Magister Cassius' own visits; they try to complement each other as best they can.'

The Magister bitterly shook his head.

'Is there no way in which I could convince you to cast your famous pride aside, and simply beg Anaris to end it?'

'Is that what you would do?' Solas asked, with a shadow of a smile.

'I don't know,' Dorian replied, nervously running his fingers through his hair. 'If I thought I had the most minor chance of escape…'

'And do you reason that I might?' the elf quietly said; he chuckled dryly. 'I've imprisoned Anaris and Daren'thal for the best part of ten millennia, Dorian, and assisted the Evanuris in so thoroughly erasing them from the minds of _the people_ that they had nowhere to turn but you and yours; I have destroyed my entire nation while struggling to save it. How many days of torment and pints of blood would you count as sufficient to repay that debt?'

'They will not let you go, Solas – they will not even let you starve yourself…'

'I know that,' the elf nodded. 'And it is not why I am refusing nourishment...Even if they would, indeed, allow me that narrow chance, it would take decades for it to function…I once slept for centuries. No,' he softly followed. 'The reason I do not eat is not because I hope that I might escape that way; I am simply trying to preserve what little dignity I still have left, amid all this – and why _they_ allow _that_ is because they know that robbing me of it will be far less humiliating than watching me having to renounce it.'

'Which I eventually will,' Solas said, a faint tremor in his voice. 'Other concerns will outgrow it… Anaris and Daren'thal have my leash well in hand, and not by chains and walls.'

'Arlathan is still safe,' Dorian kindly spoke. 'They've not surrendered it.'

The elf smiled sadly. 'I had both hoped and feared that Arlathan still stands…Despite the news of the outside that I am cruelly fed… This very hope is the leash's biting collar - that as long as I am alive to make sport on, Anaris and Daren'thal will spare Arlathan the worst of your kind's wrath, at least until their own wrath has dulled. They might then even come to understand that the people themselves were never guilty of the crime they used your kin to take such plentiful revenge for. Perhaps, if I last long enough, they might forgive, and allow a chance... Perhaps they will kill them all regardless,' Solas ended, in an exhausted whisper.

'And Cassius himself is not remotely worthy of this knowledge,' Dorian awkwardly reasoned; Solas chuckled, then briefly coughed.

'If the jester knew he was the jester, would he be half as funny? Or as dangerous?' the elf said, in a cracking voice. 'Cassius' unbound fervour in what he thinks will please his masters serves the same goal as the fool's threat in a queen's gambit serves in chess. Each day that with increasing creativity he asks for Arlathan, the bars of my true cage – not pain of the body, but guilt, and sorrow - grow thicker. He lets me know that you do not yet have it, but that the day is coming…By using him who does not know he's being used, Anaris taunts. It is only me that can fail, here, whether by death or breaking to the torment, or even faltering in the frail trust I still desperately hold in Veldrin. He takes pleasure in my knowing it.'

'And yes,' Solas said, with a smile that only depicted heartbreak, 'myself and Anaris were friends once. As you can probably guess, he was a better friend to me than I to him.'

'I'd not have guessed,' the human replied, shaking his head. 'Although, looking at it with the wisdom of hindsight, you do seem to have a rather predictable pattern of stabbing your friends in the back, so…'

'Then, as now, it could not have been helped,' Solas responded, with remarkably little spite. 'I've previously warned you not to romanticise Elvhenan; it was not a society of radiant, dainty elves frolicking merrily in dewy meadows. Its closest paragon in human history, for as bitterly ironic as it might seem, remains the Ancient Imperium.'

'Well,' Dorian shrugged, 'yes. Given whose influence its founders were under…'

'Indeed,' Solas nodded. 'The entities you referred to as the Old Gods recreated their vision of Elvhenan, using your kind – the only actual redeeming grace of the Imperium is the fact that humans die, and, for better or worse, their grudges and struggles die with them. Perhaps not in one generation, but in ten, still, history moves on, or finds a way to defuse its tensions without the consequences becoming truly catastrophic...We didn't die,' he dryly said. 'Each enmity, even if no more than a grain of sand, an ill-placed word, had time to grow and fester. We did not age, we did not forget, and we most certainly did not forgive.'

He drew a deep, pained breath. 'At the time when I, as you so kindly put it, first stabbed my friends in the back, a philosophical difference of opinion had, over millennia, grown into a chasm wide enough to swallow the entire world. The armies fielding themselves on the edges of this chasm did not see what lied before their feet – they only saw their enemies in the distance. Some of us thought ourselves ascended; the others, Anaris among them, thought themselves transcendent, and while you might think the semantics are irrelevant…'

'I actually don't,' Dorian sighed. 'I might not appreciate all the logical doodles and flourishes of Elvhen language, but I grasp this one well enough. Ascendance is available to all, transcendence is not. I still cannot understand why Anaris and crowd thought themselves _that_ special; there was a whole raft of you godly…entities that it should have been clear you might be rare, but not unique.'

Solas let out a small chuckle. 'And that was precisely the argument that Athelas, the one you eventually called Dumat, employed. His base idea was that if the peasantry at large knew that we too, had learned our crafts, and not been born with them, they might have started trying to learn them as well.'

'Pfft,' the human scoffed. 'Throughout the ages, that remains a constant. Nothing more fearsome to the nobleman than the ploughman with a book.'

'Uhm, so-and-so,' Solas answered; he paused a moment, seeking his words. 'You remember Vivienne's fierce and cruel defence of the Mage Circles; as horrible as it sounded to your ears and mine, the base point remains that if a drunken man loses a hand of cards and starts a brawl, he might take out a tooth, or kill the one man that gets in the way of his fists.'

'…while if a drunken mage loses a hand of cards, they'll take out an entire village,' Dorian muttered.

'Exactly,' the elf said. 'And now take the harmful power of the average mage, and scale it to the level of one of _us_. We'd wipe out countries. We were, indeed, the first of our kind to reach such strength; because none had done it before, our steps were tentative and slow, and so as we learned our crafts, we also learned restraint. Athelas'…I mean, Dumat's, argument was that we can trust ourselves with our powers, but we can trust no-one else. The path we'd used was now, to his mind, well-trod, and those who'd follow would go along it too fast to learn restraint.'

'That is…' Dorian laughed, 'so unbearably transparent, I…Thus, _his_ solution was – it's in the interest of the proletariat to freeze at night, because if they observe us making fire, they'll try to replicate it, and, in the process they might burn their hut down?'

'A decent summary,' Solas agreed. 'His stance presented other side benefits, of course; not all of our society could dream their days away in libraries in the Fade. Someone still needed to brew their tea and take out their seldom filled chamber pots, attend to them while they slept…To myself and Dirthamen1 this was arbitrary insanity; we did not understand how a man who read a book in the light of dawn could suddenly be proclaimed better than a man not allowed to read that same book at dusk.'

'Not surprisingly, perhaps, Dumat's ideas caught traction with a very specific segment of society: those who had built walls around their wealth to guard it. Now, they were promised walls could be erected around knowledge, too, and so, both privileges would be kept well out of the grasp of those whom nature itself had intended for service only. Within a temple, for some. Within a bloodline, for others.' He said, looking to Dorian in open irony.

'Well, Solas,' the human stingingly shot back, 'it does not sound like we stole much from you. It's increasingly obvious that Elvhenan got drunk, and Tevinter inherited the hangover.'

'Did I touch on something sensitive, Magister Pavus?' the elf ironically asked, a brief flicker of his infuriating, old self in his eyes.

'The fact that I drew the winning ticket out of a fucked-up urn is less an indictment on me than on the person who designed the urn.' Dorian snarled.

'I did not design the urn.' Solas said, dryly. 'Nor, bar terrible misjudgements, would it have come to be constructed; we were split on the subject, not mortal enemies…above all, we were not rulers of others, not yet, at least – we were simply men and women whose personal power had grown to the point where it influenced the realm. It was not unreasonable that we should speak on how we'd influence it, but this was not a political gathering of any sort. We had, however agreed to end the conversation by majority decision, and none was reached…'

'Sat that one out, did you?' the human smirked.

'Excuse me?' Solas asked, this time in genuine confusion.

'Well,' Dorian mumbled, 'unless my counting is as flawed as that of your previous visitor, you were fifteen – seven on each side, with you in the non-committal middle.'

'Ah,' the elf chuckled. 'No, we were not fifteen.'

'By Vel's accounts,' the human said, shaking his head, 'there would be seven Forgotten Ones and seven Creators, both groups excluding you…And now that I think about it, you should have been sixteen – who is that God of the Dead…'

Solas rolled his eyes. 'The Dalish got it horribly wrong, once more,' he sighed. 'Falun'Din, for it is he that you are speaking of, was the only one of the so-called Gods worthy of the title, and the only true immortal.'

'You're confusing me beyond hope,' Dorian muttered.

'Falun'Din is one of the Undying,' Solas bitterly chuckled.

'One of Imshael's lot?' the human queried, in utter surprise. 'I thought…'

'That all of them are evil?' Solas shot back. 'No, they are not…of all the things to mourn' he added, in a whisper, 'the knowledge lost…No, the Undying are not universally evil, and, just like all other spirits, some wish to toy with the unchanging world, and others do not. Falun'Din never embodied, though he could have; the closest he could be described as, in your understanding, is a spirit of compassion far more secure in himself and wiser than Cole, who took upon himself the task of minimising the danger that those who died in great anger or sorrow could cause, in the Fade; a shepherd of souls, if you wish, but one who did not meddle with the living.'

Dorian thoughtfully nodded. 'I thought your people never died, though.'

'If left untouched, no, we did not,' Solas shrugged. 'But _the people_ were not immune to disease. Women still died in childbirth, men still died in wars, or hunting; the young still fell off trees – people still died in _uthenara,_ if they tried to undertake it while not fully prepared for it…Not all who took a knife to the chest could rise again. Death not unknown; we simply had no notion of _aging._ '

'This still does not explain…'

'Your original arithmetic conundrum?' the elf said, with a pained half smile. 'The solution is simpler than you think – we were fourteen, and not fifteen, at the time, and you should know me better by now than to assume that with such a thing at stake, I would abstain.'

'True,' Dorian sighed.

'So yes,' the elf followed, 'it was not that I withdrew, but that, at the time, we were one less, so it came to an even split. It left some bitterness in its wake, but all seemed to accept the outcome, and we parted with no action…For all of our great so called wisdom, however, we'd failed to account for one crucial detail: influencing the realm was no longer a simple matter of _our_ choice.'

'Whether we wanted to or not, we could not help touching other's lives; say a beast beyond the strength of any normal hunter terrorises a village. If Andruil2 could deliver them from it, and they plead for her to do so, would it be moral for her to stand aside?' he softly asked.

Dorian thoughtfully nodded.

'And so,' Solas continued, returning to his tale in an exhausted voice, 'the mere fact that we had had that conversation touched the fabric of the Empire. The kings and nobles who would have followed your Dumat were displeased by our lack of decision, and so, began to press – Athelas and Anaris, still bitter, silently encouraged them; Andoral3 went a step further, and demanded they wear their allegiance on their sleeve, as it were, and hers is the first known _vallaslin4._ This caught stock with the others, faster than you would think – soon, the numbers of those who would have seen the arbitrary line of division drawn became visible…'

'An avalanche,' Dorian bitterly reckoned.

'Quite,' Solas whispered. 'Within the group you now know as the Evanuris, there were varying reactions. Elghar'nan5 was amused, and basically shrugged it off; we were no one to prevent people from mutilating themselves was his stance – he was the one most endowed with destructive magic, and saw no threat that could match it. June6, on the other hand, was more than rattled; quiet and unassuming, least war-like of us all, a great friend to the Children of the Stone and happy to tinker for decades on whatever mechanism she'd dreamt of in the Fade, she felt vulnerable, and perhaps, she was…She did not go as far as to create her own markings, but she began pressing that the wave of the…conversions, shall we say, be stopped.'

'The others were building themselves an army, she surmised,' the elf continued, shaking his head in sorrow, 'and if we were not careful…Mythal, of all, agreed, but war was not her wish. She simply thought that a show of _our_ numbers would create some sort of deterrent. I,' Solas tiredly said, 'bitterly opposed this, but the rest did not, and so more vallaslin were made, and more were marked, and lightning began gathering in earnest…May I…' he whispered, casting a dull glance at Dorian.

Without thought, Dorian nodded, and stood to offer him another drink of the flask.

'You know,' the human said, with wooden humour, 'for one who was not partial to my brandy earlier in the day, you are becoming quite fond of it.'

He took a droplet of the liquid from the elf's chapped lips with his thumb.

'It is tolerable brandy,' Solas said, with a minute, tortured half-shrug. 'It could additionally be said that earlier in the day I did not have three broken ribs and a stab wound. Also, I do now owe you, which I find more difficult to stomach than the stab wound…'

'…but not the broken ribs?' Dorian quipped.

'Your sense of humour _is_ abhorrent,' Solas frowned; still, there was a glint of genuine amusement in the depth of his eyes. 'I suspect that is why you feel compelled to carry brandy.'

'Indeed,' the human answered, finding it in himself to crack a smile as he sat back down. 'My entire social life and political presence are predicated upon carrying it. Though, admittedly,' he followed, 'it is more designed to make other people tolerable to me, than the other way round. Is it…' he tentatively began, 'safe for you to speak of all of this?'

The elf hesitated for split second, then slowly nodded. 'What more can happen to me now? It is but history,' he said. 'I am not seeking to endear myself to you by recounting, however, thus if you wish…'

'No,' Dorian responded. 'It factually helps; as you may have already guessed, a world of living Gods was not what we had bargained for, and we are not even remotely ready for it. Nor,' he continued, 'do I think that Lusacan and Razikale would speak of what you are speaking now.'

'Gods need their mystery,' Solas ironically said.

'Especially those Gods who started wars we are still fighting, despite having no bloody clue why,' the Magister muttered.

'They didn't start it,' the elf curtly refuted; his words made Dorian frown in confusion.

'I'd thought…' he began. Solas shook his head.

'They might have been the spiritual parents of the conflict,' he said dryly, 'but I cannot lie, and shan't. They did not start the war. Andruil did.'

'How on earth,' the human breathed out.

'By making Ghilan'nain,' Solas replied, with a small grin. 'Ghilan'nain, Mother of the Halla, the fifteenth one of us and the youngest amid the first people.'

'Kaffas,' Dorian said, in sudden understanding – Solas smirked horribly at the word, but the human paid him no heed. 'I know from Vel that Andruil did create her, but I had not suspected…'

'Well, Dalish myth is once more Dalish myth, and _my_ sweet vhenan is proudly Dalish,' the elf sadly chuckled. 'How compelling would the legend of Ghilan'nain be, if it stated not that Andruil made her because she was a righteous and kind person, who died defending woodland creatures from reckless, cruel hunters, but that she made her for simple political gain?'

The human shook his head, not knowing whether he felt amusement or dismay. 'Well,' he said, 'that must have gone downhill _fast_. I mean, I see how Dumat and Lusacan did not take well to being outvoted by a holy goat…'

'Oh, they were quite literally breathing fire,' Solas confirmed. 'Andruil's gambit did not pay; far from accepting majority decision achieved by trickery, the ones the people forgot became enraged. This was precisely the thoughtless, rapid elevation that they had spoken up against; not only that, but Andruil had taken her involvement with the realm to an entirely different level, as she had brought back one that should have been dead. Of all powers that us elevated mortals possessed, this one – the power over not life alone but death itself, had not been exercised; none of us had gone there, before. By Andruil's actions, this had now truly become…'

'The realm of the living Gods,' Dorian expressionlessly said.

'And there was no way to abscond from it,' the elf said, slowly. 'Not anymore.'

He paused for a second, and closed his eyes. 'And now,' he said, on shaky breath, 'you see it, do you not…Dorian…With the markings of their chosen side upon their faces the people stood divided. The frenzy of the _vallaslin_ continued; now, nobles did not only mark their own faces, but those of their servants and soldiers. If one wished to do laundry in a particular household, one had to mar their face with the sign of whomever the master of the house chose to follow. The powerless who followed none, but had neither knowledge nor wealth could scarcely refuse – an abstract moral standing does not keep one fed, so even those who had no stake in the conflict took the vallaslin…'

'And then,' Dorian whispered, 'let me guess – with one's face marked, one could scarcely switch employers, and one's current employer quickly saw the advantages in _that_.'

'Thus, with nowhere to go, the powerless became indentured. Then, slaves.' Solas nodded. 'Then, less than nothing, to one side and the other. I was horrified.' He softly spoke. 'All of the first people gleefully used the latter born, and took pleasure in counting how many had taken their _vallaslin_ ; Mythal still thought it an useful balance, I…could not see it so.'

'Shem'len,' he whispered, 'forget their Gods, in time. The danger of this all was not merely war; wars are fought, won and lost, and sometimes necessary. The true danger lied in the fact that some of the latter born had begun to earnestly see us as Gods – faith in one man, no matter how powerful or wise is but a flickering candle to the roaring fire of religion. Men can be questioned, Gods can not, and so, in the Gods' names, people do what they would never, in their darkest dreams they might have thought of doing under a man's orders. It all needed to be stopped.'

'I did not turn on Anaris because he'd indeed been my friend and his trust in me made him an easier target,' Solas said. 'I turned on him because the elites who stood by his side his side were fewer in their numbers. There was,' he continued in a trembling voice, 'no other way to stop the fire from spreading – even with them defeated, their true followers would not forget them, so it was clear that…'

'Oh, Maker,' Dorian whispered. 'And all of you agreed to this monstrosity?'

The elf helplessly shrugged. 'Not per se,' he shakily responded, 'but there was a tacit understanding that they could not simply be defeated. They would need to be utterly expunged from the hearts and minds and even memories of the people – you've seen how easily they were brought back with the veil merely weakened...You know, in fact, that even in the presence of the full veil, they could still be reached by the Magisters Sidereal; for fear of such a future event, we could not allow their faiths to survive them. It was then that I created the spell that I might have used on Veldrin to remove the vallaslin, but where the allegiance was more than skin deep…'

'The aftermath was bloody, but it was less bloody than it might have been if I had truly allowed it to progress to the point where half of the Empire would take arms against the other half,' Solas said, in a defeated whisper. 'We'd thought the ones who'd sought to pass for Gods were imprisoned, their true followers slain, their names erased; further millennia passed, in relative peace, but the danger was already loose among us, and staring us, quite literally, in the face.'

'I can't imagine what you must have felt when you saw Veldrin's vallaslin,' Dorian softly uttered.

'You're right,' Solas curtly replied. 'You can't. I was aghast when, after the defeat of the Forgotten Ones, the practice of blood writing continued, as did the insidious notion that we were Gods. The very thing we'd killed so many to oppose was still there, its roots too strong by now…'

'As our strength grew, so did our arrogance,' he said. 'I bitterly called this Andoral's revenge – she might have been long gone, but the poisoned gift she'd left behind only now showed its power. With the people wearing their allegiances on their skin, for all to see, it was only a matter of time before the Evanuris began counting their followers too, as if the people had been sheep. I wished for no part in this game, but I was not spared it.'

'An unmarked face spoke as loudly as any vallaslin,' Dorian nodded.

'For what was worse, mine was the only known method to remove the blood-writings,' Solas continued, 'and I did so for all who asked, without reservation; the vallaslin was, by now, far from being a sign of sincere admiration. It served to mark the people as farmers marked cattle; it served to differentiate the rich from the poor, the learned from the illiterate…By the end of it all, it had even come to serve as some perverse form of travel papers – woe to the servant of Elghar'nan caught in Andruil's forests...Removing the vallaslin was truly restoring a person's freedom.'

The Magister laughed. 'And, I think you might have gotten away with it,' he said, 'if it had been a philosophical point. But it wasn't, was it? You and yours were not only offending the Gods. You began _undermining the economy_.'

'You would know,' Solas answered, with a thin smile.

'I would,' Dorian agreed, 'which is why I am depriving you of the pleasure of saying it. I know your views on slavery well enough, and I can guess where you are leading; even if you had massacred the previous ruling class, another one rose in its wake – with the same appetites, but with the added, born expectation that those appetites should be satisfied cheaply, or, if at all possible, for free.'

'As I said,' the elf snarled, 'you would know.'

'I won't descend to that debate, as it is endless,' Dorian answered, simply. 'It is, however, refreshing to see how similar we actually were.'

'Vile habits are far easier to adopt than good ones, I agree,' Solas coldly said. He angrily shook his head. 'That is when I became the Dread Wolf – the creature who would take the innocent, defenceless sheep from the protections of their masters and their Gods.' he added, with subdued fire. 'If one does not like an idea, what better way to see it die than cast those who speak of it as the villain, and terrorise those who might benefit from it to the marrows of their bones? Andruil, I believe, came up with the name first; she and I had not seen eye to eye for some time, and, of course, it stands to reason that the great huntress would describe me as a foe that she was still best placed to overpower.'

'The name caught well enough,' Dorian noted. 'That is all that the Dalish know you as.'

'It was a double edged blade, though,' Solas responded. 'Some did, indeed, live in fear of me, but that only made the loyalty of those who listened stronger. It was the least of my intentions, but I gained many to my side – reluctantly, I came to understand that posturing was sometimes necessary, and that, for some, only a God would present sufficient protection from other Gods. I did not fight the name because it served…Until, just like you noted, the others saw in the unmarked face as much of a declaration of allegiance as the vallaslin were.'

'Throughout the land, those who believed in me, or at the very least did not believe in _them_ were hunted, forcefully marked or killed. I truly am not a God. I could not be everywhere to defend them, and while I was not initially aiming for an army, the rest of the Evanuris thought I was. I begged Mythal to reason with them – and she tried to; reason did not work, so she made one terrible mistake of her own. She reminded them of the Well of Sorrows.'

'The place that had undeniable memories of the strong once having been weak,' Solas whispered. 'The only living record of our truths, as inconvenient as they might have become and so, they murdered her. To keep her silent.'

Dorian bit his lower lip and nodded. 'And from then on…'

The elf shrugged. 'You know the rest,' he said. 'With her murder, the last of the barriers had been shattered, the last doubt dispelled; they'd shown their true colours. They were no better than the ones the people forgot, and no more worthy of being present in the living world than the others – I could see into their futures, all of their futures, and I saw nothing but the very war we'd sought to quell, not fought by two armies, but six…With Mythal gone, all hope that we could at least preserve a fragile truce and not turn on each other had vanished, thus…'

'I did not think I would completely sever the people from the Fade,' he said, vibrant pain in his voice. 'How could I have? It was no more imaginable to me than say, removing all the air in the world – I did not think the possibility existed, and now…'

He looked to Dorian, and tried to smile. 'I am the very first to admit death is too good; I selfishly wished for it, on Seheron, yet there is justice in what Anaris is meting out, here. I am a man who has measurably left the world a worse place than when he found it. How many,' he bitterly chuckled, 'can truly boast that? I've not only failed to save my people, but I have doomed us all to endless strife… Despite what you doubtlessly think, the prolonged ruin and torment of your people was never my goal.'

'I believe you,' Dorian kindly said.

'Thank you,' Solas responded, lowering his glance. 'It is…undeserved comfort.'

'Will the prison of the Evanuris hold?' Dorian queried; he drew a sharp breath when the elf helplessly shrugged.

'That is the true question, is it not? It is brave of you to ask what even Anaris fears to.' Solas said. 'I am sadly inclined to think it will not.'

'You must have had a plan,' the human pressed. 'I mean…'

'I did have a plan,' the elf responded, 'and ideally, I might have had much more time to see it through. I'd meant to reinforce their bindings before removing the veil, but without the foci that Veldrin destroyed in the year of the Inquisition, it was impossible even for me to cross physically into the Fade. I had intended to make another, and I know how to, but as you might intuit, the construction steps of such things as foci were not designed with any considerations for expediency in mind…'

'For what is worse,' he quietly added, 'all of the first people shared extraordinary Fade attunement, but the expressions they took were vastly different. Not all of us were even mages, in the current acceptation of the term; my own powers had not returned to me, and despite Mythal's sacrifice, I gained raw strength, but none of my old finesse.'

'That is why the orb Corypheus carried was so important to me – it had been mine, millennia before, and it stored the very refined expression of my own magic. Now I would have to write it all anew. It would not take as long as it had the first time around, but it would still take significant time…Decades, perhaps…I was in no rush to act, not before Arlathan itself was strong enough to survive the death throes of your world...Not while Veldrin still lived, to see the inevitable carnage.'

'Not while she still lived to oppose you,' Dorian coldly put in.

'That too,' the elf earnestly admitted. 'She is a remarkable woman, with remarkable powers; there is no wonder Daren'thal greets her as an equal. In another world…I'd nonetheless seen her defeat impossible odds in this one; I could not rest easy thinking that she could not find a way to counter me, and, as we see…'

He helplessly shrugged. 'The passage of time could only work in my favour. Her friends and yours of the former Inquisition believed her, but the true powers that could have hindered me did not, just as I had expected. Orlais and Ferelden even regarded the exodus of the people as a blessing in disguise.'

Dorian cranked his nose. 'O-of course,' he muttered. 'That is why you left Tevinter to last.'

'For as much as it pained me to do so, yes.' Solas answered. 'You were the only realm where the elves would truly be missed, and even if you would have been crippled, you would have retaliated. You, I could not touch until the very end…Dorian,' the elf began, narrowing his eyes, 'if I may ask, how is this knowledge of any use to you? It is rare that the victor affords their defeated enemy such luxury of time for explanation, and neither of us can change what has already come to pass.'

'Because we all committed terrible blunders,' the human said, looking away, 'and I would know _how_ they came to pass. We are, none of us fools, and trust me, I feel less inclined to judge you for breaking the Elvhen from the Fade, now that I've managed to effectively restore the Old Gods.'

'You did not do it alone,' Solas said.

'Well, yes,' Dorian replied, in irritation, 'but excuse me if regardless of your hefty involvement in the matter, causing _my_ first historical fuck-up leaves _me_ mildly rattled. You've managed three so far, two in my lifetime, so I guess for you the novelty is probably wearing off. I'm a bit more thin-skinned, eh?'

'I am also the one of us who has to fight for a way out of the blunders we commonly caused,' the human added, 'as your current abode is not the pinnacle of style and comfort, and you are effectively out of play. What happens next is a purely intellectual exercise for you to ponder in the blessed space between two beatings. It's a tad more material to me. Not to mention Vel, if she does not immediately spring to mind.'

'I understand that all too well,' Solas returned, unpleasant intensity returned to his stare, 'but the roots of our grandiose symphony of errors, or at the very least this movement of it, will not aid you going forth. Please, take me at my word.' He said – and for as much as the Magister wished that the elf was lying, he bitterly knew that he was not; his stomach turned with dread.

'Please, Solas,' Dorian said, in a strangled voice.

The other held looked to him with an unreadable expression for what felt like a century before yielding. 'As you wish.' Solas said. 'But you have twice been warned that this leads nowhere…'

'Warning taken,' the human said. 'You said yourself you'd not planned to attack Tevinter for decades. Was the eluvian the cause…?'

'No,' Solas earnestly replied. 'There was little I feared could come through a doorway sized eluvian. I feared facing Veldrin, of course, because of the inevitable outcome – if she had come for me, I would have had to kill her, but…that was the only thing I feared. None of you were a match for me, even less so within the Crossroads. Or so I thought - Morrigan's presence changed that; after the Voices of the Well, she knew too much and I had failed to see the weakness that her son represented. She was a great danger to me, so I felt pressured into action.'

'Go on,' Dorian said, swallowing dry. 'How did you learn of Morrigan's presence? We failed in hiding the eluvian, but she was hidden to the very end. You did not venture half a patient decade on a guess.'

'I didn't guess. I knew.' Solas replied. 'I could not watch you as arduously in Minrathous as I might have done in Val Royaux,' he yielded, when his long stare and curtness were met with naught but the humans' insistent gaze, 'but I did watch you, encountering much the same problem with it as Magister Cassius did…'

'Eh?' Dorian perked.

'Your house servants like you,' the elf shrugged. 'You treat them exceptionally well, hence there was no bribe enticing enough, nor grudge I could exploit to get me past your front door, and then, in truth, I'd underestimated how deep the roots of enmity between the great Houses of Minrathous run. If you are at war with another Magister, your slaves are at war with theirs as well – their fates are far more closely intertwined with yours than those of liveried Orlesian servants. The racial angle that had served me so well in Orlais did not serve here, and thus, for the best part of five years, my agents paced around your mansion with only Cassius' agents as entertainment…It proved fortuitous, in the end, because it was the frenzy of their activity upon Leliana's arrival to trumpet something greater than the eluvian was afoot.'

'Why greater than the eluvian…Oh bollocks,' the human sighed. 'Radonis.'

Solas nodded. 'Yes. If Radonis himself had been satisfied that the eluvian _was_ the plan, he would have ordered Cassius to stand down. He didn't – in fact, Radonis' impromptu visit to your mansion made Cassius act with rage induced recklessness. In watching him watch you, I learned not only of Morrigan's presence, but of what part she was to play in either killing me or rendering me tranquil; I learned that Leliana had her son, and where she held him…and Dorian,' the elf said, 'think well on whether knowing more than that I learned this all by Cassius' ham fisted approach is truly not enough...'

Dorian looked at his hands, his will threatening to falter…Still, he had come too far to turn from the truth now. 'I need to hear you say it, Solas,' he weakly said. 'As I am assured you know, the doubt is worse.'

'I've led you too far for doubt now,' Solas returned, sadly. 'I could not find the truth by entering your house, so the truth had to somehow have left your house on its own…If hearing Altus Hadrian's name from me rather than trusting your own deductions will give you some measure of peace, I've no reason to not speak it. Still, I should not think it is the name you needed – you seek a why, and that I cannot offer, for I had neither the time nor the interest to learn it.'

'Indeed,' Dorian whispered. 'Why would you have…'

'Because parts or all of what I had learned could have been wrong, hence leading me into a trap of even greater consequence than the one I believed I was avoiding – and what do you know, they were,' the elf replied, in cold self-irony. 'It was foolish of me to think that you would trust your friend with everything...'

'No, no,' the human outright laughed, though he felt all he'd ever assumed true – of the world, of himself, of Lexi, had suddenly dissolved to toxic sludge, and settled in the pit of his chest. 'I… _we_ ,' he chuckled, 'did trust him with everything; it is simply that I and Maevaris did not agree to Vel's blood magic entrapment until, learning of our original plans, you made your first move. For what is even better,' Dorian added, 'had you not moved when and as you did, Radonis would not have pointed us to the dragon relics. We'd not have gone to Seheron; you'd not have weakened the veil…'

'Lexi did tell Cassius all that he knew,' Dorian ended, in a pained whimper. 'It is simply he didn't know everything. And here I was,' he breathed out, 'ready to blame you for all the tactical mistakes that might sink all of Thaedas, when in fact _I_ destroyed us all with…with _pillow talk_?'

'You…' the elf began; for the first time since their paths had crossed, the fury in Dorian's eyes cut him short.

'If you say that I was warned, I swear by all the fucked-up would-be Gods of this accursed universe that I will slap you,' Dorian hissed.

'It will hurt you more than it does me,' Solas replied, an undertone of caution in his voice, despite the fact that the human had buried his face in his hands. 'It was still me attacking you,' he said, with awkward, unpractised kindness. 'Of all the reasons for which mistakes are made, love and trust are the most forgivable, I find…You're not the root of this, I meant to say. If I had mustered the courage of killing Veldrin five years ago…'

Dorian huffed out a pained chuckle. 'Do you finally wish you had?'

'No, I still do not,' the other quietly said. 'Logically, I know I should have, but that would have made my quest void…What would be the point of restoring the world of my people have been, if I started it by slaying the one I truly see as the best among them?'

'You…' the elf whispered, 'might think that my blatant disapproval of your friendship with Veldrin was sexual possessiveness, and part of it…Part of it was, despite your obvious disinclination for women; no man in love,' he followed, in the same quiet voice, 'wants the object of their affection to be so close to another man, and, given the fact that I had to fight my lust for her so hard, and I felt her desire for me as burning fire, hearing you laugh with her, seeing you touch even her hand…Still, the true danger in your closeness was the fact that the more she knew you, the more she came to think that _this_ world can be shared, because men such as yourself would share it.'

'Which is not true,' Solas said, 'yet, because you are, despite your heritage, a _good_ man, she does not see it. She never will, until it is too late – the very air my people need to thrive is poisonous to you. Your entire race is lethal to us, regardless of whether you are good or evil, but Veldrin will never accept that, and so, I should have killed her…Not tormented her, or allowed her to so torment herself. It was my love and sincere admiration for her that led us all here, Dorian; do not add to my crimes by letting me torment you with guilt over having loved and trusted, too.'

The human stood and walked away, not knowing whether the slowness of his pace had been deliberate. He did not even have the strength to nod, nor to turn on himself when he heard his name in a low whisper; all he could muster strength for was standing, with his eyes closed.

'What is it, Solas,' he uttered, in a barely audible voice.

'I told you I do not know a why,' the elf said, 'but, for the kindness that you've shown, I can offer this – my agents did assure me, at the time, that Altus Hadrian did not surrender you with ease. In fact, I think the wording they used was that the breath your secrets were uttered upon came very close to being his last.'

Dorian bit his lower lip to the blood. 'Thank you,' he said.

'Please, for your sake and Veldrin's, don't return here.'

The human could think of no reason why he would.

* * *

1 One of the Seven Creators of the Elvhen Pantheon, the God of Knowledge and, later, Secrets. I am using him, although it is pedantic, because he's the only other Elvhen God whose name is used in cursing. Fen'Harel is obviously more popular in that department (May the Dread Wolf take you! is quite the staple for 'Fuck You!' in Dalish folklore), but Dirtha-ma (literally, May you learn) is a far greater insult, and it's considered so nasty it's rarely uttered.

2 The Great Huntress, another one of the Creator set. She and Solas have, ahem, history.

3 Appraiser of Slavery in Tevinter religion, one of the Old Gods.

4 Ceremonial face marking, still used by the Dalish today; it shows one's allegiance to a specific deity.

5 Father of all Fire, Creators set.

6 Mother of Invention, Creators set.

* * *

Sorry, we know it's long, but one can hardly compress ten millennia of history is less than 10k words. Tolkien took the entirety of Silmarillion to do it, and we are not Tolkien, though we wish we were.

Thank you for reading,

Abstract & Ivi


	45. Juda's Priests

_The Aegis faltered; his hand could not draw against his own lord,_

 _But neither could it be stayed as his Prophet was betrayed._

 _Unarmed, he stood between Andraste and the Tevinters._

 _A spear pierced his chest twice, and he fell._

 _ **Andraste 1:13**_

* * *

'Thinking to kill me?' Veldrin asked of the darkness in her chamber; she needed no light to sense the other's presence, and she did not wonder how he had managed to get in unnoticed. The eluvian in the library was very much still active; he'd have known how to navigate the Crossroads to reach it, and her servants were not guards.

'There is nothing I would wish more than to do so,' Abelas responded.

'Well,' the woman said, closing the door behind her, and turning her back to him, 'do it. I will not fight you, even to defend myself.'

She did not hear him inch closer; she did, however hear him shift his weight uncomfortably.

'Unless, of course,' Veldrin softly spoke, 'you think a simple stab would be too merciful for the dimensions of my so-called treason.'

'I do think that,' the man responded. 'But the world never ceases to mock - I need you alive, and I have dire need of your counsel. This truth,' he uttered, in a low hiss, 'brings me pain and disgust.'

'Of course,' Veldrin shrugged. 'Still, if you're not minded to kill me for it would be too swift a punishment, may I light some candles? I don't see well in the dark, and I should think that you will hate me even more if you actually see the robes I am wearing.'

'Do as you wish,' Abelas said; she closed her eyes, and willed all of the readied candles in her room alight. She then looked at him, over her shoulder, and willed the fireplace alight as well, for it was winter in Minrathous and he was neither accustomed to the cold, nor dressed for it. He did not even blink.

'Could you reach Solas, if you wished?' she asked, fully turning to face him. The man hesitated, yet it was obvious the robes of a Tevinter Magister were not the implement to give him pause – just even greater reason for pain and disgust.

'If I was so determined, I could, but it would be too great a risk for too little gain. You have rendered him useless to all of us, but his survival still serves to distract.' Abelas said, dryly.

She sorrowfully nodded, and strode to sit on the corner of her bed; the man looked at her with narrowed eyes, as if he'd been suspicious this was some misguided attempt at seduction. Of course, she dully thought – perhaps he considered this had been how she'd gotten so deeply under Solas' skin that she had managed to defeat him…

'I shall take a seat,' he dryly announced, and Veldrin nodded, though it was obvious the Abelas was not asking for permission. There was a little comfort to be had in the fact that he picked a chair that was obviously close to the fire. It was still as far away from her as he could possibly sit.

'How fare you in Senate?' Abelas asked; the utter lack of irony truly surprised her.

'I have some friends, but they are few. The others, well…They don't openly spit at me,' Veldrin earnestly replied. 'I disgust some, I frighten others…'

'You have taken an useful name,' he noted, again, with a surprising lack of any caustic undertone. 'It is said that you have the Archon's ear; it is also said that the Forgotten Ones greeted you as an equal. Is this true?'

Veldrin hesitated for a moment. 'Yes,' she cautiously replied, 'but I do not fully understand what that means...'

'That they see you as a friend. All friends are fickle,' he stated. 'Only true enemies are steady.'

'It is good, then, to know that I can count on you,' the woman replied, smiling; he sternly nodded. 'Why have you risked this, Abelas? You should not have come in person.' Veldrin asked. 'You are in great danger here, and not from me.'

He nodded again. 'I know that,' Abelas simply answered. 'Anaris watches and listens.'

It was Vel's turn to nod.

'If he had been minded to kill me, or afford me the same treatment as Solas,' the man indifferently said, 'he would have done it already. Thus, I can only assume that he is more interested in watching me humble myself before you than in killing me.'

'I dare say you are not making much of a spectacle,' Veldrin replied, arching an eyebrow – and indeed, she considered, no truer words had ever been spoken, for the man carried himself in such a way that she felt caught on the back foot. 'Nor do I wish you to,' she added, in a gentle tone. 'I can guess why you are here,' the woman followed, 'and if it is within my power to aid you, I shall, without reservation.'

Abelas measured her though half lidded eyes. 'I have no choice but to believe you,' he said, after a century of cold consideration. 'If I had had one, I would not be here. For all the things that you have done,' the man began, 'I cannot think that Solas would have cared so deeply for a true enemy of _the people_ , and thus hold on to some hope that you are not pure evil…'

'Just lethally misguided,' Veldrin completed, with a crooked smile.

'We are defenceless without him,' Abelas said, not bothering to acknowledge her words, 'and still, the ones best left forgotten and the slaving usurpers have not yet come for us. The influence you wield cannot, therefore, be underestimated.'

'I wish that were true, old, steady enemy,' Veldrin answered, 'but I have not fought for your cause. Not yet, at least – Arlathan does not seem to be immediate on their minds, and I did not wish to bring it to the fore. I suspect,' she sighed, 'that _your_ humiliation and that of my _vhenan_ will not suffice; Lusacan will enjoy the humiliation of the entirety of Arlathan far more.'

'And to your mind, this is why…'

He did not finish the phrase, and he did not have to, as both of them recognised truth.

'So, it truly is death or shame, in the end,' Abelas said; for the first time, there'd been emotion in his voice, but whether it had been pain, disgust, or anger, Vel could not tell. 'I know which one you'd pick,' he added. 'Your human mate has taught you how to swallow well enough, I'd wager.'

'I've taken a useful name, as you have yourself noted,' Veldrin snarled; Abelas raised his eyes to hers and smiled, but she did not allow him the triumph. 'If your hope is that you will anger me enough to send you spinning back from whence you came, let you hang yourself and thus relieve you of hard choices, Abelas,' the woman said, dryly, 'it is vain hope. It is death or shame, or, perhaps better phrased, pride or survival. Though you may doubt it, I would choose pride for myself at each juncture; I am still not mad enough to think that I have any right to make that choice for one and all, as you and Solas are.'

'Our people were dying.' He angrily replied.

'Our people _are_ dying,' Veldrin spat back. 'Solas _fucked up;_ the humans defeated us once, and will defeat us again if they choose to, and, yes, we shall need to bend knee to them if we are to survive…'

'We would not need to, if you had not betrayed us all.' Abelas sneered.

'If I had been as willing as you and Solas to kill all that stand in my way, you mean.' She furiously corrected. 'I'm not, and I am not sorry for it. It was by Solas' mistake that the humans triumphed over Elvhenan, and for me, it is now too late to remedy that mistake. I do not know about _your_ world, but in mine, in this one, once you have made the original mistake, you do not simply get to erase the consequences.'

'In other words, if you allowed the rats to nest, you have no right to eradicate the infestation?' he sharply queried.

'Humans are not rats. Qunari are not rats.' Veldrin replied. 'Nor are _my_ people the remorseless killers you and Solas sought to turn them into.'

'Easy to speak so; _you_ doubtlessly think you would die last, when the rising waters finally reached you, on the snowy top of the mountain that is your moral high ground,' Abelas said.

'I would at least die with pride,' she said, between her gritted teeth. 'The pride of knowing that _my_ people were better than the Shem, to the very last. I'd would gladly die with the pride of knowing that we are more intelligent and kinder, and fairer than they are, on every hour of every day…And you've given me no reason to take pride in that – do you have any idea what you have exposed those of the people who did not choose to follow you to?'

The man took a deep breath and shifted his glance. 'We've left them to the care of those they chose to trust above _us_ , their kin…'

'Except that you don't regard anyone who doubts your way your kin,' Veldrin said, coldly.

'While you and yours made no such distinction,' he chuckled. 'Leave well be, _da'len_ , I've seen first-hand how the Dalish thought – still think – of their city born brethren.'

'…and we know all too well how well that division served us all.' She said, holding her anger in check. 'By the fact that you are here, I gather that neither you, nor Solas, not even the ancient truths that you kept to yourselves for thousands of years have been able to mend this, and that, in fact, you've added a further degree of separation…'

'I'm here because _your_ actions have rendered our position untenable,' Abelas said, darting to his feet, 'both within and without Arlathan's walls; you spoke of death or shame – and, at the moment, those within the walls still have that choice. Those outside the walls, bar yourself, and the handful of Tevinter Liberati in the chainless tow of their human masters, no longer have one…because…because,' he continued, his voice dropping to a pained whisper, 'we've all, in different ways, chipped away at it until nothing remained. If such is your pleasure, I will admit to that.'

'I neither need nor want you to do so, Abelas,' she kindly said. 'It gives me no pleasure, nor does it lessen the task before us both…'

Veldrin rested her forehead in her hand. '…which is to say,' she softly uttered, 'two things, I think; firstly, that you have decided for shame, else you would not stoop so low as to be here. You'd not need me if you had chosen death – the question, then, remains, how much shame you, personally, are willing to shoulder, and how we lessen it for all others.'

The Sentinel closed his eyes, and let out a pained breath.

'It does not have to be me. You can try Marquise Briala, and I will gladly intercede.' Veldrin said, allowing him time for thought. 'Orlesian recognition of an Elvhen nation…'

'Will give me…us, nothing, even if the Marquise's influence on Empress Celene is as strong as it is rumoured.' Abelas bitterly said. 'We need protection, armed protection of whatever borders shall be granted – Orlais is not a threat to us, and neither is Ferelden, for we have nothing that they want. Quite to the contrary, I should think.'

She nodded thoughtfully, and gazed into the fire.

'The only way that we will be safe from the Imperium is if we are already…already in their claws,' he whispered. 'I am not under any illusion that they will defend what is ours, but they shall defend what they think they own…'

'Who shall we be irking?' Veldrin impulsively asked; he visibly hesitated. 'You know that if this is to happen, there will be visible borders,' she reminded. 'The continent will know where we are, and whatever land we land on will have more than one nation hawking for it. Thus, we will need to think carefully whose shoes we will be stepping on. Perhaps refrain from stepping on some.'

'I cannot bring myself to think like this,' Abelas said, shaking his head – the woman gazed upon him with warmth and sadness.

'But you are here because I can,' Veldrin reminded.

'Of course you can,' he sighed. 'The world you were born in was a maimed one already…You're used to begging for what was once ours.'

'Perhaps,' the woman answered, trying to ignore the sting – he seemed too tired and defeated, and his words were quite true. 'Do you have counsel?' Veldrin inquired, leaning slightly forth.

He sorrowfully shrugged, but conceded to the truth. 'Not of your…acumen,' Abelas said. 'Very few of the people have been raised so high as you yourself have risen, and I do not think Marquise Briala trustworthy…'

Veldrin chuckled. 'Well, maybe – but do recall that she thwarted Solas without knowing she was, and that should raise her above me, in terms of trustworthiness. But, no, I did not mean Briala, though I think you two will become acquainted sooner rather than later. If we are to accomplish anything, I shall need Briala on side here.'

'On the Shem'len side, you mean,' Abelas said, angrily looking aside.

'The only Shem friends you will have are my friends and her friends,' the woman sharply answered. 'And you'll need many, many more than you know.'

She scratched her head. 'Uhh,' she breathed out. 'Let me explain what I am thinking,' Veldrin said, standing and beginning to pace. He followed her with his glance – it was still icy, she thought, but there was undeniable fascination in it as well. Fascination bordering on dread, but still…

'I don't want the location of Arlathan to be known before we have a plan,' she said. 'I trust my husband, and the head of my Senatorial fraction with my life, but my house is now full of human servants, who have been hired in a bit of a haste, due to…'

'Hm,' the man interrupted, with a dry cough. 'In short, people you do not trust.'

'Yes,' she curtly nodded. 'Were that no so,' Vel sighed, 'I would call Dorian and Magistra Tilani in here, _now_ , tonight, and see what borders you propose…But if that map or even word of it were to leave this room, and end up in the hands of our enemies, of which, I assure you, we have many, the nations that might lust for our land would mount a claim to them before we can present them to the powers who might allow us to have them.'

He bit his lower lip and breathed in deeply. 'The Imperium has its Gods,' Abelas reasoned. 'If ever it had reason to be fearless…'

'Indeed,' Veldrin quickly approved, 'but Archon Radonis, personally, can still fear the Magisterium. The more weapons we hand them against us – such as say, border disputes with Nevarra, or the Free Marches, or Gods forbid, Par Vollen, who has still not given the Imperium a peace treaty – the less free reign he will have to give us an even remotely favourable settlement.'

'We want Radonis to hear us first and loudest,' the woman said. 'We have no leverage, Abelas,' she said, stopping her pacing to meet his glance. 'All we can hope for is to reduce the Magisterium's leverage as well; if we set our hair on fire before it is time, we will be spending all our time on our knees, and achieve nothing.'

'So…so what exactly are you suggesting, Keeper Lavellan?' he stuttered, both dread and fascination clearly shining in his eyes now.

'I suggest we bring a map that would be an acceptable risk to Radonis,' Veldrin said. 'One that he could not, in good conscience, argue down too much.'

'The heir of Darinius and good conscience sit not well in the same thought…And how would I…Good heavens,' Abelas said, running his fingers though his hair. 'How would I know what is on that Shem's mind, if I have not your counsel?'

She helplessly shrugged. 'And I cannot counsel you, because I do not outright know what we shall be asking for, neither in terms of land, nor in terms of concessions, and I should not know it in detail, my old enemy,' she sorrowfully said. 'My walls here have ears, and more than the Lord Watcher watch.'

'So, yet again, how would I know…'

'Flavius,' Veldrin said. 'You have Flavius.'

For a heartbeat, it seemed as if the colour had drained from even his vallaslin. 'How do you know that?' Abelas hissed. 'How do you know…'

'Oddly enough, I know Flavius well,' the Magistra answered. 'He…he was not a close friend of mine, mind you...'

'Of course,' he smirked. 'Women of great names do not befriend menial scribblers.'

'Quite to the contrary,' Vel chuckled. 'Men in the Archon's utter confidence do not make politically dangerous friends. I was not Lucerni, yet, but my husband openly was, and Flavius was unofficially as much a face of the Archon's office as the Archon himself; he could not be friends with a Pavus, even a Pavus that happens to be an elf. Any trace of open closeness would have damaged both him, and I.'

'Flavius grew up with Radonis.' She added. 'If there is anyone within your walls who knows what he thinks and how he thinks, it is him. If I were you, I would find his counsel priceless. Mayhaps better than my own.'

'Go on,' he said, between clenched teeth. 'Why should I trust this man?'

'Because no one leaves power and relative wealth such as Flavius had to chance their lives, if they do not believe in a cause,' Veldrin replied. 'Doubt it not: Altus or not, Pavus or not, by Radonis' favour, Flavius was the strongest of our people in the Imperium, far stronger than I was. He'd not have left if he had not resented the Imperium. Even though, perhaps, he does not resent Radonis himself. Ask him, Abelas, then judge him for yourself – whatever he says should inform you, even if you find him not to be trusted...If you find him not worthy, do the opposite of what he advises.'

The man looked into the fire for a long, long time.

'Were you this self-controlled, cynical monster that you now are, when Solas first knew you?' Abelas asked.

She laughed, for he did not understand that even the most powerful of insults washed off her, now, much as water waves at their greatest, foaming rage, broke and became sparse upon the jagged teeth of cliffs.

'Do you find me an _useful_ , self-controlled, cynical monster, though?' Veldrin asked; his silence lingered, so she strolled to her drinks table, straying as close to him as she had thus far done. She poured herself a drink, offering him no hospitality.

It was good that they were not friends, Veldrin thought. Very good indeed.

'I do, thus far,' Abelas said, standing.

'Good,' she said, looking into her glass. 'One thing you need to know about us short lived, pointy-eared Shem is that we learn very fast – we have no choice, our life spans are so very…limited. This makes us hungry for knowledge, and quick to digest it. I've learned a lot from Solas about being a self-controlled and cynical monster. More than you have learned, I think, Abelas.'

* * *

Hm, poor Abelas in this one; strong on the hubris, frail on...everything else, really.

Have the two people who most closely following Solas decided that they are going to support his cause and not him? What else could happen that would be worse news?

Oh ya...Something worse could happen.

Thank you for reading, we really do love comments, (like genuinely really, Abstract goes really happy and funky when we get them),

Abstract & Ivi


	46. A Walk in the Woods

_The vicious beasts lay down and were quieted;_

 _The meek lambs became bold_

 _And rose up, casting aside their shepherds._

 _ **Exaltations 6:5-8**_

* * *

The woman did not know how long she'd lain there, amid the fallen, wet leaves and dry, fallen branches. They felt damp and rough on her nude skin, but the sensation, the first one to return to her, was pleasantly familiar, thus, amid leaves and branches, she remained curled, enjoying what would doubtlessly turn out to be another dream.

She'd increasingly been having these, over the past few months, and though she'd only found torment upon waking, she had lustfully indulged, as if the feeling of the forest's floor had been the caress of a long-lost lover. Perhaps if these visions had been the same each time, she might have found a way to quench them, yet…they were not. They did not follow each other, as dreams spun of ardent wishes did, nor was she always in the same place; at times, she lay on fragrant grass, great trees above her. At others, she found herself running on open fields, waist deep in flowers – at others still, she kneeled on soft, deep moss, listening, without remembering what she was listening for.

All better places for a dream than this one, the woman told herself. Still, for some reason, she liked this one far more. The cold felt real, as did the crackling of the leaves and little branches when she finally turned on her back to behold the sky. Even her skin felt real this time, she thought, despite the fact that faint light of the moon above was enough to sting her eyes and make them water.

How odd…She vividly remembered dreaming of the sun, and it had not hurt so; in other dreams, she'd smelled only the most pleasant scents – the grass, the flowers, perhaps the sea…Now she smelled everything, the good scents and the bad: the rot of leaves, the markings of the lynx, the whiff of a herd of deer who'd crossed the place where she lay, not an hour past.

Within, something urged her to stand and take to the trail of either animal. The lynx's coat could keep her warm, but the deer would have fed her; wisely filtering moonlight between her long eyelashes, to glance up at the sky, the woman greatly pondered whether she needed food or shelter first, then realised that naked and weak as she was, she should probably have feared the prowling lynx…she needed to get up, she thought.

She needed to make fire.

The urgency of both sensations startled her so much that her eyes unwillingly flew open – she sought to bring her forearm across them, for the light truly stung, but found her movements slow, her body heavy, then, before the fear that either realisation could engulf her, she caught another smell. Fire, at first, one made with oil and rag, a trace of incense, but underneath that…

Underneath that, there was a scent she could not place, some beast who'd never before crossed her path.

 _A beast that wields made fire?_ Her mind queried, with surprising clarity. _What manner of beast can it be?_

Though she knew not the answer, her instincts told her that it was far more dangerous than the lynx. She _needed_ to get up, up and out of its way, because now, she could hear it approaching as well as smell it, and whatever it was, it was large, had many legs, and no fear of the forest's creatures, for it did not try to disguise its presence in the least way. No woodland creature, predator or prey, conducted itself thus – she dug her heels in the ground, and desperately tried to rise.

Her panic driven efforts resulted in nought but noise, horrible noise of shuffled leaves and crackling twigs - she fell back, dizzy and awed at the fact that her legs, her nimble, powerful legs, did not obey her…And, as she fell to the deceitful and treacherous cushion which covered the cold ground, she knew, she understood the truth.

This was no dream. It was a nightmare.

The notion that none of it was real, which might have given others the comfort of knowing it was the step that almost always preceded awakening brought her no solace. The very same, strange instinct that had tugged at her to stand and take to the trail of the animals she'd smelled told her that the fact that she was still asleep would not ward off death.

 _I can still die, in dreams,_ she thought. _In fact, it is only I dreams that I can die…_

The beast had heard her; the sound of its footsteps had changed direction. It was coming her way.

But panic would not serve.

She tried to rise again, employing grace, rather than strength; she took a deep breath, to calm her heartbeat once she was on her knees.

Panic, more than this wondrous beast, she knew, was the enemy. It was in panic that the deer lost their minds and ran away from their heard. It was panic that shrunk their senses to such an extent that they thought not of the noise that they made, while running, it was in panic that their noses caught the scent of only one…only one…

 _One wolf,_ her mind recited. _One wolf, and not the pack he leads; it is so that the deer falls to the hunt._

She shakily stood fully upright. Rather than try to run, she gazed about herself, her heart and breath under control, despite the fact that the smell of the creature was now truly getting strong. _It_ could not smell her, though, and this she knew because if it had been able to, it would not have depended on her initial, loud mistake to track her. Maybe it hunted by hearing and sight, the woman considered, and if so…

She looked down to the forest floor, no longer seeing leaves and twigs, but the spaces between them where she could step, reading the ground as others might have read deep etchings upon marble. A tentative and quiet step was followed by another – the path ahead was clear, and with it in mind, she sought to see to what kind of hiding place it might have led her. The trees about her were bare in winter's deep embrace…and shrubs…she could find none in sight.

It was to be distance, then. Upon the trail she'd already found she hasted, trying to find a balance between stealth and speed – the former, she seemed to have regained, but the latter was not sufficient. The light of fire glistened upon the wet leaves, still in the distance yet too close for comfort, and she knew that she was not fast enough when she heard the beast on her trail begin to murmur, on many voices, as though it had had many heads. So loud it was, that above her, birds took to flight, and smaller creatures scurried to hide in their dens.

The upheaval of nature showed that this thing was indeed to be feared, yet provided equal opportunity for cover, and so, the woman's pace quickened, more and more, and she set herself running, despite the fact that her own height made her dizzy. She stumbled from her course…

'Who goes there?' the beast shouted, in a single voice – the words she did not understand, and did not need to; it was simply a howl to her ears, distance her only saviour now.

She ran in earnest then, and it set pursuit; for a few heartbeats, she saw that this was how she'd die: trampled under the creature's many legs, or roasting in its fire, while its countless mouths chewed on her flesh…Still, even in the nightmare there was respite, or, maybe, the vision's torment was simply giving hope – the pace at which she fled by far surpassed the pace of her hunter, and she ran steady while it clumsily ambled.

Faster and faster the woman went; she glided amid trees and shrubs, and vaulted over creeks of melting snow, so light on her bare feet that the rocks and twigs she stepped on did not even scratch her. So light, in fact, that her bones felt hollow and that she felt as if she'd spread out her arms, she would not only flee, but actually take to flight.

The air itself coursed differently upon her skin, no longer cold, but as if she had been running in a cocoon of some sort. She glanced down at her arm and saw feathers growing upon it. This did not frighten her, though, somewhere, in a corner of her mind she knew that it might have, had she not felt herself so light and had her sight not grown keener. It was not only her steps that carried no sound now, but the hissing of the wind through long hair had stopped, thus she truly surrendered to her instinct's tug and leaped into the air, bringing her shortening legs to her chest and spreading her arms, and soaring.

She often ran, in dreams, the woman who had just turned into a bird thought, as her fantastic body rose above the treeline. Yet, dreams of flight had not been given her, this was the first, and she surrendered to it as if it had truly been a dream of long lost love.

What else could it be described as? She thought. From prey to predator, in but a heartbeat. She saw small creatures in their dens and hollows, she heard their heartbeats, she smelled their fur. She could all but taste their flesh, feel herself crush them in her talons, know herself satiated as she rent open their soft bellies…

 _What fear have I of wolves, or fire wielding beasts, when such is my power,_ she thought; drunk on her strength and on the heights she'd soared to, she turned to behold the thing that had so frightened her. She flew above the herd of deer she'd earlier sensed, only realising how far away from her attacker she had come when she noted that miles separated the herd from the beast.

The night air was crisp and clear; the hunter within her saw the lynx hiding from the beast's path too, but she was still not scared. She followed heat and smell of oil and rag set alight, the smell that was unnatural. She saw the beast.

Surprise at its sight was injury to focus of the mind, not body. And, as she tumbled from the clear sky, feeling the lashes of many a tree's limbs on her skin, the woman finally learned the truth.

This was not dream. It was no nightmare, either.

It was reality.

She was awake.

* * *

'I'll have no nonsense out of you!' the captain of the border guard of northern Starkheaven shouted, grabbing one of his soldiers by the chest of his leather armour and shaking him mightily.

'I swear to the Maker and back that I _saw_ it,' the soldier answered.

'And I swear that you'll spend so much time in a cell for being drunk on duty, that you'll forget you ever saw anything, including your wife's cunt!'

The rest of the company laughed. 'Aye, he's the only one here who hasn't seen his wife's cunt in the past three years anyway,' one of the troop said. 'Not that it's that memorable.'

'Gentlemen, please,' Mother Petunia intervened, not making it sound as if she thought any of them gentlemen, or that her words had been anything else than an order. 'Lord Sebastian Vael would not countenance such speech, and neither shall I.'

'Apologies, Mother,' Rylan Ostwyn, the captain of the guard replied, letting go of his scout. He nonetheless inwardly sighed, and cursed, using words that neither the Prince of Starkheaven nor Mother Petunia would have cared to hear.

The words had much to do with intercourse between, and the private parts of both Mother Petunia and a Prince so wise that he saw it fit to reward one of his longest serving troop by sending him to patrol the nether end of nowhere.

Rylan Ostwyn was a man rushing upon his sixth decade. The cold got to his bones; let alone that, he had a wife who was two decades younger, three daughters to marry off, and so little tolerance for spiritual nonsense that one might have searched for it for years on end, with an Orlesian looking glass, and not found any. He nonetheless served, precisely because of those reasons, and he would have appreciated _not_ serving.

As far as he was concerned, Starkheaven was patrolling these woods because it needed to keep its overly large army busy and its citizens distracted. Nothing happened, in these woods – nothing ever happened, unless something made it happen all in one night, which, of course, was bound to be the coldest and shittiest night of the year.

At first, it had been one of the few mages that remained in the city that had warned the prince of a further disturbance in the veil, for whatever _that_ was meant to mean. Then, it took only one Templar, whose brain was so lyrium addled that he'd forgotten how it felt to march through deep woods, in the middle of fucking winter and in full armour, to confirm it, and here he stood. Not only with a Revered Mother spouting shite about language, but in the company of beer-sagged men who would have liked to show both Revered Mother and her new-found charge how they could get them warmed up while warming themselves up in turn.

He dispersed the gathering of his soldiers about the Reverend Mother's charge with a few nudges and grunts, then beheld the thing that had all of them so riled. Though he did dispense earnest attention to it, for none had gotten so far within the ranks if they were lax, he only saw what his eyes saw, and it was undeniable.

Mother Petunia's charge was a young Elvhen woman, naked as if just had just been brought into the world. Whipped as if someone had sought to take her out of the world fast, too, he thought.

'Someone get me a blanket,' he spoke.

'We don't carry blankets for the enemy,' one man said; Mother Petunia rose to her feet faster than a snake might have.

'This woman!' she preached, in a voice so piercing that it was unfitting her stout form, 'this woman was cast out!'

'Eh?' he unwillingly questioned. 'Cast out from where, and by whom?'

'She fell from the sky!' the scout wailed, hiding his face in his hands. 'I saw it, I saw it,' he screamed, moving about the group of his companions, and seeking to find their glances. It was no wonder he could not – their feet were wet with fast freezing muck, their breaths were ragged, and it was all because they'd just given chase to something only he saw, only to find…this. A naked woman, in a hole, and even that after they'd run into a full circle to the place where they'd just come from, because he'd said he'd seen something.

Nonetheless, Rylan Ostwyn pulled the cape from his shoulders, and draped it about the woman's form – some part of him knew that he did it because she looked like his middle-born daughter. Another part of him did it because he knew his daughters needed dowries, his wife wanted fresh furs, and that it was unwise to challenge a Reverend Mother, in Starkheaven, where the Chantry ruled.

His motions pleased Mother Petunia; she once more kneeled next to the naked elf, took her hand in hers, and loudly prayed.

She prayed so loud that she drowned out the chatter of his men, as well as the protestations of the scout who said the Elvhen woman had fallen from the sky.

'Andraste, guide me!' Mother Petunia said; all men as one were scared enough of their Prince that they repeated the words. 'Maker, take me to your side!'

The Elvhen woman woke at the words, and she glanced about herself, looking wild with fright, her green eyes rolling, rolling, with fright and fear, he thought.

'Aaa…' she tried to speak, still shivering beneath his cloak.

'Andraste guide me,' Mother Petunia helpfully led. The naked Elvhen woman only managed an 'a', and a bowel guided sigh after, and who was he, Ostwyn thought, to refute evidence, when the Mother once more stood and told all that the woman had been cast out from her community of rebels and heretics because she believed in Andraste, and the Maker of all Creation.

'Aaaa,' the naked woman still tried to say.

Mother Petunia saw it as evidence, and his feet were wet and freezing. He cared not stand in the freezing muck for longer.

'Lift both, move out,' he commanded. 'Let's go home; we'll march both further and faster if we carry them.'

His men obeyed, in testimony to the effect that not-quite-frozen mud had on iron shoes. They lifted both women, one on a stretcher made of hastily shaped branches, the other, on their shoulders.

The only one who did not join the march was his scout, and, tired of the man's arguments, Ostwyn brought an argument of his own, by pushing him, lifting him and hitting him against a tree three times.

'You will shut up,' he said. 'We march home. Where we are warm and safe.'

'I saw a woman made owl made woman fall from the heights of the sky,' his man insanely repeated. 'It was as if I'd seen a dragon of Tevinter. I've seen…'

'You're mad, that's what you are,' Ostwyn said, dryly. 'If you want to stay here freezing, do it – maybe the cold will sober you up, or maybe the drink will make you fall asleep and then the cold will spare me a bother. In any event, I'm going. Enjoy howling at the moon.'

He made true on his words, and left, not before giving the scout another healthy shake. He guessed the other man's resolve would last just until the company's torches were barely out of sight; then, reason would prevail over any notions of women, or owls, or, even better, owl-women, falling from the sky, and the scout would eventually follow.

And if not, well…

It was only upon reaching one of the small settlements that surrounded the city proper that Rylan Ostwyn understood his grave error – the madman had not followed the rest of the troop, and now, he had to haggle with a few of the others to turn back for him, and put up with more of Mother Petunia's displeased, pursed lips, when most of the men remarked upon the fact that if the man was not home, it simply meant his wife's cunt was lonely and in need of comfort. It also meant that he could not return to his own wife while the fool was still unaccounted for, thus, he'd have to wait for news inside the Chantry – the only building with a warm fire that would welcome him at such time in the night.

He felt uneasy, but told himself that it was probably the fact that the last time he had set foot in that sort of building of his own accord had been his second wedding day.

Well, Ostwyn reasoned, letting himself drop in a pew, and watching the Mothers and Sisters buzz around the young Elvhen woman, he hadn't come into the Chantry of his own accord on his wedding day either. It had simply been that his fur-loving wife, then, his fur-loving mistress, had begun to show rounded belly, and taking vows had been as good an opportunity as any to pray that this third child would be a boy who needed no dowry.

Showed how much the Maker cared, he thought. Hours later, when this latter dispatched group had still not returned, and he'd remained alone in the great hall with the young woman, whom the sisters had bundled by the fireside and left to sleep, Rylan Ostwyn reached the conclusion that there really was no Maker, just as he had suspected all along.

If there had been one, and he could have read the old soldier's mind, he might have struck him down with lightning…

The sound of hurried footsteps woke him with a great start; but for the fact that the face of the man who was now vigorously shaking him awake was pale as marble, he might have given in to his first instinct and punched him in the face.

'Commander Ostwyn,' the man rasped.

'What in thundering…'

''s dead,' the man said, wiping his face of sweat and tears with the back of his sleeve. He must have discarded his armour to gain speed and bring the news, Ostwyn thought, still feeling dazed by warmth and sleep.

'Who's dead?' he asked, shaking his head.

'Locke,' the other answered, speaking the scout's name. ''e's dead…'

Ostwyn hoisted himself to sit back up in the pew, feeling each and every one of his years and all of his bones. Above all, feeling dread he dared not show.

'Froze to death, did he?' he asked, managing irony he did not feel. 'The idiot…'

The carrier of ill news shook his head. 'Nay,' he said, then noisily breathed snot back into his nose. 'That's just it, 'e didn't, 'e…Maker's mercy, Sir…'

'Will you just speak?'

 _And there is no such thing as Maker's mercy._

'I rushed ahead to tell you,' the soldier said. 'The others stayed a bit back to bring 'his body, but, Sir…I ain't sure his wife will want to look at it. I ain't sure I wanted to look at it, Andraste help me, I ain't gonna forget it.'

Realising that pressing the visibly incoherent and terrified man with further questions, Ostwyn patiently waited, and patted the man's shoulder, with genuine warmth, for he too was now fully awake and saw his own wretchedness.

 _I should not have left him behind,_ he thought. _He was mad with drink and I lost my patience, and now…_

''e stepped on a snake,' the courier said.

'Impossible,' Ostwyn breathed; the other nodded, tears still streaming down his face. 'Locke was a fool with drink, and had not the best taste in women or jokes, but he knows those forests like no other, drink or not, night or day. He wouldn't…just…step on a snake!'

'Aye,' the other man replied. 'And it ain't just that, Sir. 'e's bloated and blue, and bursting out 'is skin. 'e don't much look like he stepped on a snake. 'e look like he stepped on a bleeding ball of them! Ain't no part of 'im that ain't been bit, lest parts we got to see…Andraste guide me, they ate 'is eyes!'

'This is madness!' Ostwyn exclaimed, darting to his feet. 'It's the middle of bleeding winter, there are no snake nests in winter…Also, what kind of snake can bite through armour?'

'What kindda snake eats a man's eyes?' the courier asked back. 'Only 'is eyes? What if,' the man whispered, throwing a terrified glance at the young Elvhen woman, who had been awoken by the ruckus and was now staring at them, wide eyes filled with fright at the raised voices. 'What if…'

Ostwyn breathed out heavily, and shook his head, once more patting the man's shoulder.

'Come on,' he calmly said. 'We're better men than this – look at her,' he said. 'She's a scared little girl, in rags the sisters gave her. Maker knows how she ended up alone and naked in those woods. Maybe she was thrown out by her own people. Maybe she got thrown out by one of us, who had no further use for her. Whatever happened to Locke, it's not her fault.'

'Well, she's a bloody elf, ain't she,' the courier whispered. 'They can hex, you know…'

'We're better and braver men than to take this out on a little girl, no matter if she's an elf or not,' Ostwyn repeated, kindly; the courier swallowed dry, and his glance lingered upon the young woman for what seemed like eternity. She simply gathered the rags that the good sisters had given her for clothes, as well as the rags they'd given her for bedding about herself, and gazed back at them like one wrongfully condemned who knew they were about to die.

'You're right,' the courier said, in a low sigh. 'She's but a girl. I guess, then…I guess I'll be telling Locke's wife…'

'No,' Ostwyn whispered. 'I left him out there. I will tell her; go home to your own wife. You've seen and done enough tonight.'

With heavy, reluctant, and guilt ridden steps, the bearer of ill news withdrew. It was one thing, Ostwyn guessed, to make fun of another man's wife, and of the man himself – it was but talk. It was another thing to tell another man's wife that her man was dead, and that snakes had eaten his eyes, and he would have to do that, because...

Because it was fair, and he'd left the fool out there, thinking him less of a fool than the man actually was. But not just yet.

He shifted towards the young elven woman, thinking that he could somehow reassure her that she would not be whipped or set ablaze. He'd have to leave one helpless woman in tears today, least he could do was help another.

She darted to her feet and ran, at the doors first, but she found them too heavy to push open. At the fire, next, but she could not turn into mist and disappear out the chimney – thus trapped, she pressed her back against the painted wall, and pointed up at what the wall depicted: the Maiden of the Alamarr, with sword and shield in hand.

'I won't hurt you, child,' Ostwyn said.

'Ahhndrasshte!' the woman hissed, taking the pose of a fist-fighter; despite the pain in his heart, he struggled not to laugh at the display.

'Do you even speak our language?' he asked.

'Aaaandrasteeee!' she repeated, banging her tiny fist on the wall.

'Other than saying Andraste?' he now laughed. Truly…

He approached her slowly, and distantly noted she was beautiful. The potato sack the sisters, in their great mercy, had chosen to gift her with barely covered her sex or her behind, and was so wide for her shoulders that one of her breasts was exposed.

To his eyes, she still looked like his daughter. Had the same look of a tantrum about her as his daughter had had when she was two as well, and he could only hope she would look like a daughter to the many who'd see her thus exposed once the good sisters had her scrubbing floors in exchange for thin potato broth thinned further with water.

'Do you speak our language?' he asked again, staying six feet away from her, as she looked as she was truly going to melt into the wall.

'uh…hour langh…u?' she queried.

'You don't,' Ostwyn said, kindly; at least the kindness would carry, he thought. It did, for the young woman relaxed, and went out of her ill-advised fighter pose.

Still, she pointed at the picture behind her.

'Andraste,' she said, this time, correctly.

'Yes, Andraste.' Ostwyn repeated.

'Yes?' she said.

He pointed at the wall behind her. 'Andraste.'

She decisively nodded, then said 'yes' again, and she did not shy from him as he led her to her poor bedding by the fire, but then withdrew to safe distance – a sign that he'd not intended to make use of her that must have been common to women of all nations.

He wrapped the dirty sheets about her, when her breath had eased to a soft, regular and light snore; upon second thought, he added another hefty log to the fire. He left one woman sleeping, and left her knowing that there was a woman he'd have to wake up.

* * *

The doors closed behind the animal she'd never seen before, and she stood, ridding herself of what had been placed upon her with a mere shake of her shoulders.

She walked free, and naked, and strode along the walls of the large hall with many pews.

She strived to follow what the walls depicted, but was at a loss.

So, she thought, there was a female animal, that looked like the people but was not one of the people, with long golden hair, that once carried a sword, as well as a spear, and a shield, despite having only two arms, against some dragons and some males of the same animal kind, dressed in black cloaks. Then a male in a black cloak had killed this female, when she was already dying in a fire, then…The animals who looked like the people had built…temples, in her honour?

This made no sense.

She placed her hand on the wall, and sensed nothing but cold stone.

'Andraste,' she said, loudly. The golden haired female still stared down at her, dead and silent in her stern contemplation.

'What are you doing pacing about naked? People come here to pray!'

She turned to the sound of alarm, and she was hit across the face so hard as to make her fall on her knees.

'Pray to the Maker of all Creation,' the female who had hit her said. 'Pray he forgives you!'

'…yes?' she asked, arousing more ire; the female of the animal species she'd just met wrapped her hair round her fist and dragged her back to the fire, then held her face so close to the flame that she could only scream one name.

'Andraste! Andraste!' she screamed, as the flame caught her hair. The woman's fist loosened.

'You do well to remember the Maker's Bride! Crawl back to the sheets _he_ gave you in his mercy. And don't wake us up again, you hear?'

She nodded, remembering that the predator walked in silence, and pleased with a lesson well delivered, the sister withdrew.

She did not stand up again, but once more looked about herself, to the walls of this strange temple. Was this, she wondered, what _the people_ had turned into? Were these more than animals, somehow?

Well, she considered, they clearly were, because they could make fire, and spoke, and built temples, but…They could not be _people_ , she concluded; as they had moved around her, she could already smell them dying; she even knew of what they would die – such as, for instance, the mad woman who'd just pulled her hair would die of a hole in her stomach. She didn't know it was there, but its whiff carried on her breath. It would be two years, three at the most until it burst open and bleeding, and the madwoman would die, never knowing the hole had ever been there.

The other, the armoured male who had a kind voice, was dying too, but not of any disease. His body, somehow severed from the Fade, was not mending itself as it should have been. He would last longer, but eventually…

This, like the figures on the walls, made no sense – whatever story the depictions were meant to represent…It truly had no logic, and at some points, the non-people must have understood it, because the walls had been painted over several times, some things scratched out, others added. In one such hasty, visual retelling, she could actually see one of the _true_ people; he appeared twice – once, kneeling before the woman with the golden hair, but then, in the panel that followed, one that showed the same man receiving a sword from the woman's hands, the points of his ears had been scratched out, and some clumsy painter had made a brave attempt at rounding his eyes and bulking up his figure, to transform him into one of these...things, whatever they were.

She had no doubt these alterations were old, and that none who lacked her keen eye could actually see them, yet they were doubtlessly there. She instinctively ran her fingers though her hair, and touched the pointy tips of her own ears, as if to reassure herself they were still there, because at least these two panels made sense, now: the non-people liked the people when they kneeled before them, but had, at some point become less keen on the people if they stood as equals.

Had the people lost a war in her absence? She wondered, turning on her back and staring to the ceiling. To _these?_ And, more importantly, would they try to do away with the tips of _her_ ears?

She smirked to herself.

 _Let them try._

She almost laughed out loud, but then remembered the madwoman, and stifled her chuckles.

Above mere beasts as these things must have been, they were still far beneath the people; their temples had no magic, they themselves were walking about in flawed, magic-less flesh, and…And more importantly, they were stupid.

 _We do not paint our temples,_ the Elvhen woman thought. _We use mosaics, and we do that because if we want a particular story to be forgotten, we can dismantle the entire depiction of it and build it anew, and none, even those with the keenest eyes would ever discern that an inconvenient, different truth might have existed in the first place._

'Hm,' she said to herself.

All that aside, though, she was still weak and in need of nourishment and shelter, and she would have to depend upon these until she was restored and she got her bearings. So, something told her that if Andraste's name served as passkey to survival, as it obviously did, she'd have to make sense of the pictures on the wall and of the odd, ill-sounding tongue the non-people spoke.

'Yes, Andraste,' she said, under her breath; it was not perfect but…

She fancied she'd come far for one night. It would take many more days and nights, and many more words for her to tell them any sort of truth.

 _Andruil,_ she nonetheless thought. _My name is Andruil, the Great Huntress, mistress of all lesser creatures – like deer, and lynx, and snakes, and non-people. I am Andruil, I am awoken, and I have come awake to reclaim what is mine._

* * *

Well, hello there! Thank you for reading and commenting, one and all - and, hello Andruil.

Why, everyone was just hoping you would show...Ok, they weren't but who are we to judge?

We did say it was about to get interesting, did we not?

Thank you for reading and commenting,

Cheers,

Abstract & IvI


	47. Daughter of Brona

_The shadow of a distant storm darkened the Sun._

 ** _Apotheosis 2, 1-4_**

* * *

As Josephine Montyliet's carriage approached the city gates with the rest of the Antivan delegations' carriages, the woman couldn't help but recall some of Varric's more choice descriptions of the various troubles she and her companions had gotten into, and wonder if this one was to be the greatest yet.

For all that had come and gone, though, some things were still beyond belief – such as, say, the fact that her first sight of the great city of Minrathous was the undeniable view of its dragons. It was said that the White Spire was visible from anywhere in Orlais, and she wagered that the same legend would be spun of the Old Gods as well, for the sight of the two monstrous bodies resting atop a gigantic wall, upon the shoulders of stone giants that legends said could move on their own…

One could see them miles away from making port.

Minrathous itself was a sight, she thought – flowers bloomed everywhere, even the grass that grew amid the cobbles of the road was spliced with silvery veins, and for one who had once loved Val Royaux and found all cities inferior to it, Josephine found it…

Charming.

Alive.

Neither word could be used to describe Val Royaux, Denerim or Antiva City, at present; and, Josephine Montilyet thought, one could scarcely dismiss the sight, because it stood in stark contrast to all accounts that southern travellers had given of the Imperium's capital, over many decades. In these, Minrathous had been unfavourably compared to every capital on the continent, and even to Dorian Pavus' native city of Quarinus, which, as Phillam! A Bard! Had adroitly written, 'was as wretched and decaying a hive of villainy, but at least a sunny one.'

And still, as a Phoenix rising from its ashes, the city about her was waking up to spring. Its skies were still a bit cloudy, but that was merely weather; its buildings still looked old and patched many times over, but that was merely age. What was striking was the sheer… _insouciance_? Josephine thought, with which the city went about its business.

The markets had a bustle to them that had long deserted the southern capitals. The people looked healthy, the stalls were laden with fresh and vibrant early spring produce, and, Maker have mercy, Josephine considered, stealing a quick glance at the sky, as if to assure herself no flying cows were passing overhead, even the livestock seemed fatter…

And who could wonder why? Josephine bitterly thought to herself. Eight months had passed since the events on Seheron, but despite the Chantry's assurances, the plague of fatigue and sudden possessions in the South had not truly eased – the possessions were fewer, true, but Josephine had begun to suspect this was not due to the fact that the veil was mending, but rather to the fact that those who could be possessed were dwindling in numbers.

Still, children who grew of the age of manifesting magic were oft victims, and there was no pattern that one could discern. Parents regarded their own offspring with great fear, and wedding bells had ceased to toll throughout the lands. People were wary of all others, even of those that they knew best, so there had been no spring harvest to speak of – fields and orchards lay fallow and overgrown, cattle and sheep ran half wild, and no peasant worked for more than was absolutely necessary for subsistence. Venturing to trade in the cities seemed like madness, as all kept to themselves; even at court, cherries had become a luxury worth its weight in gold.

The stone giants came to life indeed, parting the gates of the inner city to allow the delegation passage, and though the dragons seemed completely undisturbed by the fact that the wall upon which they slumbered was moving, Josephine felt fear such as she had never experienced in her life.

 _Good Maker,_ she thought, realising that the creatures were so enormous that they could not be fully seen from up close. _What if it is true? What if…_

Josephine Montilyet's official purpose in Minrathous was to send Antiva City's congratulations to Divine Victoria, who, in a time of such turmoil, had united the Chantries of the continent under one banner. Her secondary, and more shameful purpose was negotiating some form of trade agreement with the Imperium, on behalf of Antiva and Rivain. If anyone had ever told her that Antiva City would have to beg to buy fish from Quarinus, she would have laughed in their face, and yet now…now, this was precisely what she had been tasked with. She suspected that it would not be long before Orlais realised that they could not outright _eat_ gold either; perhaps they already had.

And soon, all too soon, the Imperium would not only have its Old Gods. It would regain something that was even more dangerous than that – it would recover its wealth.

The carriage pulled to a halt in the inner courtyard of a large mansion that had seen better days, but still looked as if it would survive the next couple of weeks, if her delegation trod carefully upon its stairs. And they would have to, she told herself, descending, and immediately circling the carriage to once more look at the sleeping dragons. Maker, they would have to tread carefully in more ways than one.

'Hey there, Ruffles!' she heard, from behind; her heart almost gave in.

'Varric!' she exclaimed, spinning on herself. 'What are you…'

'Yeah, yeh,' the dwarf warmly laughed. 'If you're surprised to see me, you're not half as surprised as I am for being here. Shit never stops being weird, ey?'

'Indeed, no,' Josephine responded, gladly yielding to the dwarf's strong hug. She should have been glad to see him – no, she reconsidered, she _was_ glad to see him – but, she should equally been relieved, and that she was not. 'I was just thinking of you…What are you doing here?' she asked, with a little frown.

'What else?' he shrugged, trying to look at ease, but nonetheless extending his arm to guide her away from the company of servants who was now offloading the carriages, and not stepping as lightly as Josephine might have liked. 'Same as you, I think, congratulate Cassandra on being the Chantry's latest and greatest, and all that crap...There's a really nice garden, if we walk this way,' Varric said, making his intent of evading all others even clearer.

'You know this place?' Josephine asked, falling in step by his side.

'Yeah,' he nodded. 'Got here two days before you did – had a bit of time to wonder 'round. Had time to get a drink or twenty with Sera and the Bull too,' he added, with a wink.

'Are they about as well?' she asked, feeling there was no end to her astonishment.

'Not here-here, but they are in Minrathous,' Varric answered. 'They're staying at that place with the broken bell on top. The one with all the showgirls,' he put in, as clarification. As neither description nor clarification made any sense to her, Josephine shrugged, and he shrugged in return. 'Doesn't matter, really,' he conceded, opening a rickety, wrought iron gate for her. 'Better place than this,' he sighed.

Josephine chuckled – the garden they had just entered was small, but well-tended, with neatly cut grass, intricately layered rows of colourful flowers, and a little water-fountain at its centre. No shrubs or hedges, though, she noted, as the dwarf sat rather heavily on the fountain's edge. No place where anyone could hide within earshot.

'You know that the Magisterium won't need actual ears and eyes to watch us,' she said, sitting by his side; the sun was peeking out of the clouds, and she raised her face to bathe in the light and warmth. 'If there's even an enchanted stone in this garden, neither of us would feel it…Maker,' Josephine whispered. 'I am assured you don't feel the _rest_ , either, but since I've crossed into the Imperium, I have the sensation that it is the first time I've truly breathed in months.'

'I guess,' Varric softly said. 'And, yeah, I know that the Magisterium can hear us everywhere,' he slowly conceded. He sounded sorry to steal her moment of peace, but it did not matter; a little, ragged cloud had veiled the sun anyway.

'But it's not them you fear?' she asked, in a low, concerned whisper; he gravely shook his head, looking more serious and burdened than Josephine had ever seen him.

'I told you shit's weird,' Varric said. 'And it's about to get a whole lot weirder, Ruffles…'

'I don't think I can handle weirder than this,' Josephine whispered – the dwarf humourlessly laughed.

'Yeah, well, when did _shit_ ever consult us on whether it should happen or not?' he quipped. 'I'm even starting to wonder if we're, like, some sort of weird catastrophe-attracting combination of folk. Whenever more than two of us run past each other…'

Josephine thoughtfully nodded. 'And this is starting to look dangerously like a reunion,' she said. 'Did Vel and Dorian join you for those drinks?' she asked.

'Vel did,' Varric replied. 'Dorian is into drinking alone these days, I gathered.'

She sorrowfully lowered her glance. 'I would be too, if…'

The dwarf cut her off with a decisive shake of his head. 'It's not that; I…I think that on account of _those,'_ he said, tilting his head to the side to indicate the dragons, 'both him and Vel are either resigned, or have the sensation they know what they are doing. Maker knows why, but…'

'So, no, I don't think it's a guilt induced drinking binge. I think it's personal, if you gather my meaning – Vel wouldn't say much, but made a face to sink a thousand ships, and Mae Tilani warned me about pressing, so…I didn't.

'How did you find Veldrin?' Josephine asked.

'Surprisingly sound.' He earnestly answered. 'Unsurprisingly heartbroken. Determined. About a century older. Polite, but a bit distant…I mean, she tried to hide it as best she could, but while she had time for a drink, she was not having fun. Something heavy was on her mind, something she said she could not yet speak to us about – I did not have the heart to burden her further, so…'

'It's Vel that got me into this select neighbourhood,' he followed, switching subjects. 'This charming and cosy little quarter boasts only the best and brightest – Marquise Briala, Arl Teagan, Ambassador Van Markham from Nevarra, you…Now, I…I would have settled for the broken bell and the showgirls,' he wistfully ended.

'You do represent the Free Marches,' Josephine said; he looked into her eyes and smiled.

'C'mon, Ruffles,' Varric said, narrowing his eyes. 'You know diplomatic protocols inwards and outwards… _I_ shouldn't be speaking for the Free Marches.'

'Hm,' the woman said, feeling slightly taken aback, 'after Starkheaven invaded Kirkwall, I should think that Sebastian Vael lost all right to claim himself Prince protector of the Free Marches. But,' she reluctantly added, 'on paper, at least…'

Varric silently nodded. 'I can still speak for Kirkwall,' he slowly said, 'but I am really not sure if that's a good idea, at the moment. I'm here for myself alone, Ruffles, and as glad as I am to see you, I really wish that Vel hadn't put me here.'

She shook her head in confusion. 'Why not? I mean, you're clearly not under guard, and you yourself admitted the Magisterium would watch us all wherever we are. Who are you in peril from?'

The dwarf bitterly pursed his lips. 'Everyone _but_ them, Ruffles,' he said, in a low whisper. 'Perhaps, even you.'

'Never,' she earnestly breathed out. 'Varric, you know I am your friend – you can always, always trust me!'

'I do, I do,' he rushed to say, taking her hand in his, and warmly patting it. 'Sadly, that won't be the problem. The problem will be how much you trust me.'

'Always and fully,' the woman decisively said. 'What is it, Varric?' she asked, feeling truly frightened. 'What's happening?'

He sighed, and bit his lower lip. 'Do you not wonder how I made my way here faster than either you or the Van Markham guy?'

'I can imagine a Van Markham dragging his feet over congratulating a woman who undoubtedly is the greatest of the Penthaghasts,' Josephine said. 'As for me, my mandate was only accepted now, and it is rather narrow. But it does look as though you hurried over; Cassandra's nomination is barely a week old…Which means you started out from Kirkwall before you heard about it,' she suddenly realised. 'You're not here to congratulate Cassandra.'

'The fact that she got nominated while I was on the way was the only non-shitty thing that's happened to me in a long time, Ruffles. Gave me an excuse to be here; I'd have come anyway. The kind of warning I need to deliver cannot be entrusted to paper, and I needed to beat the _official_ Free Marches delegation to the punch.'

'You're truly worrying me, now,' Josephine said. 'If anything, Prince Vael should hail the unification of the Chantry; by what we are told, he's a most pious man…'

Varric smirked horribly, and scratched his chest. 'Yeah,' he said. 'A most pious lunatic who's lost his final marble. As in, he thinks he's witnessed the rebirth of Andraste…'

'What?' Josephine exclaimed, jumping to her feet, then promptly blushing at her outburst. 'How…Could it be true?' she uttered, in a whisper. 'The Maker's Bride would be a sight so many have prayed for…I mean,' she followed, 'the unification of the Chantries, then, Andraste herself! What breath of hope…Why did he not speak of this? I would have shouted from the rooftops!'

'And in a couple of days, he will,' Varric muttered. 'A lunatic he might be, but he's not stupid – the squabble over Cassie's nomination as head of the Imperial Chantry was loud enough to be heard in the Arbour Wilds, I'm very sure its significance even penetrated Vael's thick skull. He will come to proclaim Cassandra's success a divine miracle, and reveal _his_ Andraste just in time for Cassie to kneel to her on behalf of the entire continent.'

'He means to bring her here?' Josephine said, eyes wide in shock. 'To the city of her martyrdom…A miracle indeed, a challenge to…' she added, her voice dropping to a whisper as she cast a sideways, fearful glance at the dragons.

'See, Ruffles,' the dwarf sighed, 'this is exactly what I feared would happen. That everyone is gonna get all excited, and start raving before they even set eyes on this…thing.'

'You doubt, then…' the woman said, the stern look in his eyes giving her a deep chill.

'Oh yeah, I doubt.' Varric said dryly. 'And with good reason. He didn't shout it from the rooftops, but Vael would not be Vael if he could resist a boast – or in this case, a threat; he basically told me that he wants the Free Marches to speak as one for the Maker's Bride. I did tell him we would do no such thing, to which he offered to provide me with shall we say…armed escort?'

Josephine frowned deeply; the dwarf merely shrugged.

'I was in no mood for a re-run of the last time Stakheaven's armies decided to take in Kirkwall's wonders, thus…I went. As such, I have had the dubious honour of meeting the Maker's Bride in the flesh already.'

'And?' Josephine breathed.

'And,' Varric sighed, 'here comes the part when you will need to really really trust me, Ruffles, because I've not even managed to tell Veldrin about it – fuck knows how she's going to take it... The woman that Sebastian Vael honestly thinks is Andraste is _not_ the Maker's Bride. She is not human, and she is most certainly _not good.'_

* * *

The first human words Andruil had learned were the words of the Chant of Light. It was, admittedly frustrating, as they were of no use for basic needs, or nowhere in the Chant were words that meant _I am hungry,_ or _I am thirsty_ , or indeed, _I need to bathe_ were written.

She had been a diligent study, however, diligent enough for the non-people to not punish her as harshly as they might have, when they caught escaping their dead temple; she'd not stopped trying to walk outside it, though, she'd merely grown careful and, in the night, spread wings that carried her far from their vigil to fulfil these base needs on her own. She had learned quickly, too, that stew of rabbit was not welcome if it was cooked upon the Maker's hearth, and that not making a rabbit into stew before eating it was even worse of an offence.

The ageing man with the kind voice returned to ascertain himself of her fate one or twice a week. Sometimes, he'd brought her garments that were not weaved of cloth so rough that it caused her skin to itch. She had accepted these, gratefully, but they had been roughly torn off her body as soon as the ageing man left; that was how she had learnt that his gifts of figs and raisins, sometimes cubes of cured cheese and smoked meats were to be eaten on the spot, and not saved for a night when the non-people forgot to feed her.

'All of these things they take from you…' Rylan Ostwyn had said.

'Ahll?' she'd uttered out loud.

'All. Remember, an 'a' is not always followed by an 'h'. Try,' he'd enticed.

'Ah..Aaaa..All? All?'

He's smiled and nodded, and pressed a plump fig in her hand as reward; she was dead hungry, so promptly swallowed it, whole.

'Chew it first, girl,' he'd warned, then laughed as she chocked, and spat tiny seeds in all directions. 'Chew it first.'

'See me now, Andraste, daughter of Brona!' Andruil had replied, thinking the phrase was authoritative enough to show her displeasure at being scolded, to the one person she could afford showing her displeasure to.

To her surprise, the still chuckling man had shaken his head. 'No, leave Andraste this time. Just…chew the thing.'

He'd held a hand under his chin and made like his hand made his jaw move.

'Chew, no choke?'

Rylan Ostwyn had mimicked her gestures in just showing the fig down her throat, then shaken his head. 'No. No choke. But, no chew funny: ha-ha,' he'd conceded.

She'd learned other words of the non-people, too, when she had watched him speak to the madwoman who had held her face to a fire. Not all the words, yet…

'I bring this child fresh clothes each week. Why do I keep finding her dressed in a sack?'

'There are more worthy causes for the cloth you bring,' Andruil had heard the madwoman say. 'Causes' and 'worthy' she knew from the Chant – the rest she grasped by context - it was clear that the man knew what she, too, suspected: that both of them were being robbed blind. The clothes he brought were no fineries, or rather, they were poor indeed when compared to the things the great huntress had once worn, but they were far better than what she was made to wear, here.

It was nonetheless true that once the garments were taken from her, they were not seen upon any of the sisters or Revered Mothers – rather, they were passed on, as Temple gifts, which Andruil had not truly grudged, in the beginning. It'd just occurred to her that they could at least let her keep a couple of the outfits, so that wearing such rough cloth would not be just another of her chores. Of which, of course, there were many, menial and demeaning.

She guessed, however, that if they had indeed let her keep a few of the items, the man would have stopped bringing them, and thus the Temple's unusual magnanimity towards the human women of the hamlet might have come to a premature stop. She had not grasped, at first, why the females of the non-people were so much worthier of charity than herself – dirty and foul smelling, the rims of their skirts perpetually drenched in muck and animal droppings as they might have been, they were, at least, not actually naked.

The reason for this, however, had swiftly come clear to her, even before she'd learned more than he first two words; whatever society the non-people held for themselves, she was at its very bottom. Even the lowliest of maids were above her, and spitefully slacked on their tasks just to pass them her way. Since she'd arrived, all mistakes made were blamed on her too, and she'd fast learned that attempting to defend herself led to being mocked or punished. She'd also noted that, no matter how poor their service, the human maids received some small coin at the end of each week – not so for her. For chores accomplished, her reward was scraps from their table, sometimes not even that day's scraps. If for anything she was blamed, even those were withheld; but for her nightly hunting trips, she might have starved, or weakened to the point where her growing powers would become too heavy to wield.

And her powers had been growing by leaps and bounds.

Alarmingly, however, so did her appetite – Andruil did not share the specific kind of Fade attunement of those past Gods that had been outright considered mages, for she had chosen to shape her powers differently than the rest. Yet, even she had gone for decades, if not centuries without truly experiencing hunger, and she too had walked the beyond in _uthenara_. Still, as her body had started to reclaim its prowess, it was clear that the energies which had once sustained it had now been reduced to a mere trickle, and that she needed far more physical nourishment than she ever recalled needing before.

It was thus that which each stinted meal time, with every vile glance the sisters passed her way when Mother Petunia was not watching them, her despise of them all was turning to hate. Not the explosive kind, that might have made her forget her purpose in this loathsome house of fake worship, but the far more dangerous kind, the slowly burning kind that would wait until it could be unleashed – and it would be, she knew, beyond doubt.

She daydreamt of it while scrubbing floors and polishing pews which smelled as if the non-people thought water was a lethal danger and bathing, a carrier of disease. She dreamt of it when she was carrying out swill from the kitchens, or when she went to fetch water, and the filthy non-people rasped angrily to her, and spat at her feet, when their sprogs tripped her or pushed her from behind for fun…

Despite it all, she stayed, learning the Chant, and their unmelodious, shallow language along with it. Sometimes, she wondered at her own endurance, but while such fancies of leaving this place for good, one night, and returning to her woodland realm did often plague her, for she had never been one to prize patience, Andruil remained.

Because, while she did not prize patience, she overall prized power, and she had seen what form it took, in this stinted word. The same people who spat at her took off their cloaks to cover muddy puddles, when Mother Petunia passed. The women, in their dirty frocks, kneeled to the dead paintings of magic-less Andraste and whispered prayer upon prayer. Sometimes, they wept, leaning their foreheads on the false goddess' painted skirts, and raised their hands to their face in imploration.

Fools, she wished to say to them, upon the witnessing of such displays. Can you not see, not _feel_ that she is dead? That she, most likely never truly lived? Fools, fools, desperate fools…

Andruil had pitied them, at first – then, as her hatred of them had solidified, another thought had begun to form, gaining substance along with her hate. If these non-people, she'd reckoned, could be fooled so easily into worshipping dead rock, how little would it take for them to worship true power? How little would she have to show of herself, for temples to bear her image on their doors, her statues on their altars? How little would it take to raise an army in her name, and find the one…oh, _the one_ …that had brought her so low?

Wolves were no match for well-aimed arrows. Even less so for millions of them – this thought too, had given her strength to endure. She would find him, the man that had taken from her everything, and, in good time, she would kill him and take…She would take all.

One night, when the one non-person that she did not hate, the one she inwardly called aging, but whose name was Rylan visited, to sneak for her some food and a kind word, Andruil had thought to share with him her plans; if anything, he did not seem to like the Mothers and Sisters of Andraste. He did not raise his voice or hand to her, and maybe he did not even like Andraste, for he never knelt before the pictures on the walls.

It would be him that she'd show first – thus, on that night, behind the kitchen door, and but a foot away from the pig sty, she'd shown him the least of her power that she had – she'd made a spark of veil fire rise from her hand, a little tiny one. His terror had been striking and immediate, his gaze suddenly clouded as if in a moment he'd imbibed barrels, and at the very next one sobered. He'd neither fled nor struck her, as she'd for a heartbeat feared he would, but instead closed his hand over hers, quenching the little flame.

'No,' he had emphatically said, shaking his head. 'No.'

'No?' she had asked.

'No, no,' Rylan had repeated, in a panicked rush. 'If they see this…'

'Eyes open'd, shining before me, greater than mountains, towering mighty, hand all outstretch'd, stars glist'ning as jewels?' Andruil had questioningly recited.

'If they see this, they'll kill you, girl,' Rylan had said.

'Kill me!' she had protested; these words she knew, but the human before her did not understand that she did. His features cast in fear, rather than anger, he'd squeezed her hand before letting it go, then slowly, as if not to cause her fear in turn, he'd reached out for her throat. Andruil had nonetheless flinched, for the madwoman sometimes grabbed her by the throat as well, and it was never pleasant.

He'd raised his hands, as if to reassure her, so she had stood still, allowing him to touch her. His hand went all the way around her neck, but he did not squeeze. 'Hang…choke you,' he said. 'Not ha-ha choke. It is enough that you're an elf, if you're a mage too…'

'Elvhen?' She'd queried, frowning. This word she knew for sure, and it was him saying it wrong.

'Elf,' Rylan had said – she did not try to repeat after him this time, so he thought she did not understand. Slowly, gently, he reached though her hair with both hands to touch the pointy tips of her ears. 'Elf,' he repeated, then lowered his right hand to keep her fist closed, and decisively shake his head once more. 'No. Elf. Mage. No.'

It had been thus that they were found, upon an unlucky heartbeat – one of the other kitchen maids, had stalked out of the kitchen door, balancing the pig feed on her hip; she had not dropped it, at the sight of them, she'd merely looked at them for the blink of an eye and saw precisely what she wanted to – one of the man's hands in the elven woman's hair. The other, on her wrist, him, leaning in to whisper.

It was enough to make the maid wickedly grin, as she went on her way. Rylan Ostwyn cursed, and hastily stood well away from Andruil, but the damage was done already. She had tasted the whip for the first time that night, as shouts of anger filled the hall where she was finally allowed reprieve. She could not grasp much meaning, in it all. She barely heard what was spoken, but the word _whore_ was said many enough times, and then, once more, as the maid who'd so wickedly turned a moment of trust against Andruil had passed her, and spat upon her filthy bedding, joy shining in her eyes.

'Whore,' she'd repeated, in gurgling satisfaction. 'That'll teach ya…Elven whore.'

Too grievously wounded, Andruil had merely turned her back to the other woman, and, in between sleep and waking, she had tried to stop listening to the voices, which were still loudly echoing through the hall. In the end, for pain would not allow sleep to descend, she had tried to drown the words out and merely listen for his footsteps. The sound came, at long last, and the man did not rush past her, as she'd assumed he would; he had not felt the whip, but Mother Petunia had screamed at him for the best part of the night. Despite the fact that he too had had a lashing, and provoked ire with the person in power, the man stopped by her side, and gently pulled the bedding aside to see her shoulders.

He'd cringed at the sight, and rushed to look away. 'I will not leave you, girl,' he'd whispered.

'No?' she had weakly asked.

'No, not to these crazies.'

There was another new word, there, but she nodded, and weakly said 'Yes.'

'Good girl,' Rylan had said. 'I won't come see you for a while,' he started.

She nodded her head. 'Yes.'

'But you be good,' the man said, swallowing dry. 'Be good. No mage,' he whispered to her. 'No mage. No elf.'

'Elvhen,' Andruil corrected.

'No elf,' he corrected in turn, then, under Mother Petunia's stark gaze he turned and left.

She was not strong enough to hunt that night, nor was she strong enough to hunt on the next. On the third night though, she hunted and ate her fill without bothering to make fire, then, nude, she stood above a clear lake and took in her form, no longer thinking how to change her body into that of the lynx or of the deer, or of the tiny dormouse.

Andruil had stood above the water's mirror, in the still of night, and looked at herself: her coal black hair caressed the back of her knees.

'No elf,' she had spoken out loud, and tilted her head so she could see the tips of her ears shift to round. It was an effort, but she thought she could do more, so she closed her green eyes and thought of her hair, from root to tip.

She made it gold and wavy.

'No elf,' Andruil had said to the mirror of the lake. 'Andraste.'

* * *

No elf, hear me now? Andraste!

Uhhh, we's in trouble now!

Thank you for reading and commenting,

Abstract & IvI


	48. All the King's Horses

_And the People heard the truth in Shartan's voice,_

 _And some cursed themselves and their fate and despaired._

 _And others began to fashion spears and bows_

 _From the branches of trees, and girded themselves_

 _With bark and scraps torn from their sandals_

 _And dug pits in the earth with their hands._

 _ **Shartan 9: 30-36**_

* * *

'Well,' Veldrin said, scratching her head as she looked at the maps before her, 'this is not too…bad,' she brought herself to say.

Abelas said nothing in response.

'And what you mean by _not bad_ is it's _entirely disastrous_ ,' Maevaris Tilani said, with a little huff. 'Do you and _precious_ here realise what you've put before me?'

'These are our borders,' Abelas said, dryly; Mae and Dorian rolled their eyes in unison.

'Ahem, well, Abelas,' Dorian muttered, 'this,' he said, pointing at the maps, 'may look to you like your borders. What it looks like to me is territory that Antiva and the Imperium have an open dispute over, with a hefty side dish of what the Qunari regard as their territorial waters.'

'These are our borders,' the Sentinel repeated.

Dorian sighed. 'I understand that,' he said, 'but you, too, need to understand that with these borders, we'll be stealing territory from two nations who are very little inclined to give the Imperium anything but the business end of a sword…'

'And the other thing,' Maevaris picked up, 'is that you do not seem to notice a small, but crucial detail: your Arlathan borders fully on Tevinter.'

'I thought this would ease matters,' Abelas said. 'Keeper Lavellan,' he followed, shifting his cold glance to Veldrin, 'you assured me that your bonded mate and your friend would fight our cause, not diminish it the minute they were entrusted with it.'

'And that is what they are doing,' Briala calmly intervened, gracefully insinuating herself by the Sentinel to lean over the maps in her turn. 'All the things that they are saying are arguments that will be brought against you before a very different and very hostile audience. We would do well to have our answers prepared in advance.'

'That all may be true, Briala,' Veldrin said, softly. 'But they cannot up and move the city…'

'I know, Magistra Pavus,' Briala answered; she bit her lower lip in thought. 'I think Orlais will find the land borders acceptable, and I shall endeavour to that goal. But,' she added, casting a questioning side glance at Veldrin, ' _if_ Tevinter grants statehood within these borders, and _if_ Orlais follows in that recognition, we will also de facto be declaring war on the Qun, while the ink on our most recent peace treaty has barely dried.'

'The Qun cannot fly an army to Val Royaux, and we now have full control of the eluvians,' Abelas stingingly uttered.

'Yes, yes, thank you for the reminder,' the Orlesian said, in an icily polite tone. 'As I have said, the land borders may pass scrutiny. The territory was indeed disputed, and the Empire can truthfully claim two hundred years of neutrality in the matter, and just hail an Elvhen city-state as a welcome neutral solution to the dispute. The Qun, on the other hand…'

She sighed. 'The Qun are an issue. Our trade routes in the north are beleaguered as is. The last thing we need is Qunari harassment.'

'We cannot be left land-locked,' Abelas said. 'In time, should we survive, we too shall need trade routes…'

'Which brings us all back to my original point,' Maevaris said, clenching her hands behind her back. 'You border entirely on Tevinter on one side, and I am unsure what, if anything, you will ever have to trade; I am looking at your maps, and thinking that we may find ourselves fearing Cassius' support for them more than his opposition. Because, Vel, sweetness, you and your golden friend here may look at these maps and see Arlathan. Cassius will look at these maps and see…'

'…a slave colony,' Veldrin whispered; Maevaris nodded, briskly, and though he said nothing, Abelas visibly paled.

'We cannot up and move the city,' he found the strength to say. 'We're trapped, and at your mercy, Tevinters; if there remains a slither of fairness in your kin's hearts…'

Mae's focussed glance softened, and she swallowed dry. 'It is not with us that you need to plea,' she kindly said. 'I would personally hug you, right now, if I did not think you would find it offensive in a number of ways, but, sweetness,' she continued, 'countries do not have hearts, and the Gods, whether human or not, know no fairness…'

'Is there no way that you can last, alone, for say, ten years?' Dorian asked. 'You have lasted almost that long thus far…'

Abelas looked away from him, barely suppressing a shiver of disgust – the Magister pretended not to notice.

'He makes a fair point, Abelas,' Briala said, 'and, were I you, I would learn to control myself a lot better.'

'It is hard for me to instantly grasp what you took years to master, Marquise,' the Sentinel said; it was a mere statement of fact.

'That may well be,' the Orlesian replied, 'but the way in which you are reacting to the Shem'len now cannot be the way in which you react to his grace, Radonis; if we succeed here, you will have to repeat these pleas in Orlais, and while I assure you Empress Celene will look upon you with benevolence, she cannot be seen as weak enough to allow beggars to be choosers. Use meekness as a weapon, _lethallin_ ,' she advised. 'If you are humble, they are blind to you…Magister Pavus is very right,' Briala added.

She briskly looked to Veldrin. 'How freely may I speak before the humans?' she asked.

'Don't worry about me,' Dorian bitterly chuckled. 'I've travelled with Solas, remember? I've heard it all before…not to mention I took a vow of celibacy but a fortnight past.'

'Amatus,' Vel whispered; he took her hand in his and softly pressed it to his lips, then shook his head – the sorrow and the love the gesture carried made something in Abelas' frozen expression shift, minutely. Briala herself was mildly touched, though better trained to hide it.

'Well, then,' Briala said, 'we should consider all options. Within Arlathan, the effects of the broken veil can only benefit the Elvhen. We will grow stronger, not in numbers, perhaps…'

'That's another fair point,' Maevaris thoughtfully said. 'If I were you, golden one, I'd fund a festival of love post haste.'

'Erm, festival of _love?'_ Abelas queried, sounding truly thrown. 'What mean you by…'

'Baby making holiday,' Mae clarified, arching an eyebrow. 'I assume Elvhen baby-making is as fun as human baby making, no? is he the right person to ask?' the Magistra earnestly questioned, turning to Vel. 'Doesn't look like much baby making joy has come his way in the past three millennia…'

'Oh, you mean as in a city wide go _forth and multiply_?' the Sentinel asked.

'Or a city wide lie back and think of Arlathan,' the blonde woman shrugged, 'but I would advise a lot of free beverages along side that. I'm not merely saying this for the purpose of making you blush – though a handsome blush you do sport, golden boy. The Marquise is right in what I assume she questioned was safe to say before the _humans_ ; time hidden courses in your favour. Building numbers in that time would not be bad, either, because human numbers will inevitably dwindle. Not in Tevinter, but outside it…'

'That would take at least two decades to matter, Mae.' Veldrin said. 'It would also make us more of an enticing target…Even two decades of pure, Arlathan born Elvhen will not form enough of a standing army for meaningful defence, especially not before a Tevinter where humans continue to thrive. We will just look as a more bountiful orchard to plunder.'

'Then fifty years should be in order,' Briala shrugged. 'And yes, Magistra Tilani, that is precisely what I had meant to say. Thank you for gracefully accepting…'

'I am the very definition of grace, honey,' Mae thinly smiled.

'I am overwhelmed,' Abelas earnestly said; for once, there was no trace of cold condescension in his voice. 'You _are_ minded to help…'

'We're not minded to _help_ you, Abelas,' Dorian said, with a sigh. 'We are minded to fairly restore at least some of what was yours, once, because we're not all the bastards and thieves you think we are.'

'I do not have five decades,' Abelas said. 'Solas might have had that expanse of time, but I do not have it – the city is slipping from under me. With our raid upon Tevinter's sky we bit off more than we could chew; your men and women are so well conditioned that they only speak of how great life was, before. After we brought _the people_ of Tevinter to freedom, there was no peace, no pause, no joy. They hate us, as the Tevinter Shem once did. They make up almost a third of Arlathan's population, and they are stirring ill blood amid all the others, for we do not know how to treat them; we do not even know how to speak to them. But for Flavius, there would be revolts already…

'We will not last five decades. We will not last half of one.'

Abelas clenched his jaws.

'Flavius…' he shakily followed, 'Flavius assures me that Radonis will find these borders passable, for the simple reason that neither the Imperium nor Antiva have other uses for our great forests than baring their teeth at each other; neither Shem nation has truthfully moved in to claim or exploit these lands for thousands of years.'

'Because they can't,' Veldrin nodded. 'And we _are_ at open war with the Qun already. One more claim will not matter; the Imperium has never recognised their territorial waters anyway.' she added, looking to Maevaris; the blonde woman thoughtfully shook her head.

'You know how it is, Vel, honey,' she hesitantly said. 'There's nothing to make a little piece of forest or a little strand of beach more enticing than the knowledge that someone else actively wants it. I agree with Flavius that if it were up to Radonis alone, this would pass unhindered – but this cannot be our argument, and we should not say it out loud unless its pried forth from our tongues with fiery pincers.'

'It is truth,' Abelas frowned.

'The importance of truth is highly overestimated,' Briala replied. 'We cannot go to Radonis and say – give us this land you've never had real use for, because…'

She hesitated, and pulled a map of the entire continent from underneath Abelas' parchment.

'Look,' she said, spreading it out before all. 'If we go in and say give us your un-colonised land, we will be publicly opening flood gates, while we have yet to build a dam downstream. If Tevinter uses its girth to snatch Antivan territory now, what is to stop them from acting the same here?' she ended, placing her hand atop the Brecillian Forests, in Ferelden. 'Or here,' she followed, pointing to The Tirashan, in Orlais.

'Or in the Arbour Wilds,' Dorian added, with a sigh. 'There are many plots of land that humans have not been able to tame, but they still regard them as their legitimate territory…'

'It is not,' Abelas put in, between gritted teeth.

'Again, that is irrelevant,' Maevaris said. 'If we start on that note, no other nation on Thaedas will recognise Arlathan, because they will think to the future and see that this is likely to happen to them as well.'

Briala nodded. 'If there is one argument that will alienate Orlais, it's that one.'

'We do not have the numbers to claim all these places,' Abelas said, softly.

'But in a hundred years we well might,' Vel said. 'The Shem may not have vision over millennia as we once did, yet they will still see a century in the future…Monastic lines are a form of immortality as well, Abelas. Humans remember, too. Oh, Gods, if Solas were here I would take a page from Sera's book and knee him in the tenders, I swear.' She angrily muttered.

'I would take great care of how I speak…' the Sentinel angrily began.

'Well,' Briala icily interrupted, 'I find myself in great agreement with the Magistra Pavus. If he had not so monstrously overreached, and accepted that humans are here to stay, our negotiating position would be stone solid, if you allow me the vulgar pun. With Solas behind us, we could just walk into the humans courts, point at the maps, and say this is ours, and this is ours, and this is ours too, and if the thought of an Exalted March even springs into your minds, you'll have enough statues of soldiers to decorate every crossroad in every village from Antiva City to the Dales.'

'Because that approach served you all so well in Halam'shiral,' Abelas smirked.

'In Halam'shiral we did not have Solas,' the Orlesian dryly returned.

'It can be argued you have Lusacan now,' Dorian put in, in a voice riddled with doubt.

'The very same Lusacan who gleefully assisted the Ancient Imperium in reducing Elvhenan to ash, Magister Pavus.' Briala muttered. 'I have many _personal_ reasons to hate Solas, but he, such as he is, would have been vastly preferable. Yet,' she sighed, 'many waters under many bridges…This argument line will not work, Abelas. I'm sorry.'

'So what am I to do?' the Sentinel bitterly asked. 'Are we that desperately hopeless? If truth has no relevance, and fairness has no relevance, we are lost – reduced to begging our blood enemies for mercy…'

Vel drew a deep breath. 'That was always a given,' she whispered. 'None of this has a snowball's chance in hell of happening if the Gods do not will it, and I fear kissing Razikale's slipper is not negotiable.'

'The additional hurdle with that being that if Lusacan and Razikale are actually inclined to forgive your past trespasses against them,' Dorian said, 'real or imaginary trespasses…' he soothingly added, when Abelas beheld him with unadulterated, fiery hatred, 'and they decide to further back your claims with force, I don't think the rest of the continent will respond with anything else but force in return…'

'We – they – will prevail over any human army, of course, but a war above still frail Arlathan would be an unmitigated disaster,' the Magister tiredly said. 'Even with the dragons as threat, the solution to the continent's Elvhen problem remains clear as day – if we finally succeed in killing you all, the problem will go away. Forever. And sadly, Abelas, I think that while we humans still have the numbers, a lot of the South will regard the sacrifice worthwhile. You have an ancient ruin, with fortifications not designed for modern siege machines. You historically were over-reliant on your magic and the Fade, and you no longer have either; you may rebuild in time, but you say this is time you do not have.'

'The Shem would die in their tens of thousands,' Abelas said.

'Yes, but we are still millions, tend to mindlessly give ourselves to baby making, and can ultimately afford it,' Dorian said. 'You cannot. If your people get caught in the crossfire, and your numbers fall to where not even the mother and grandmother of all Elvhen baby making festivals will restore them, you will effectively be purged.'

The Sentinel pressed his hands to his temples. 'I know,' he whimpered.

'It must not get to that,' Briala decisively said. 'Whatever it comes to, it must not get to that – the solution must be diplomatic, or none at all. Assuming Tevinter would raise an army to defend the people, that army will demand a price, and we cannot…Oh Gods, I can only imagine what that price will be, and it will be as lethal to us, as a race, as any war.'

'A price,' Maevaris echoed. 'Hm. Dorian?'

The man raised his glance to hers and sustained it for a long minute. 'Mae,' he breathed. 'You can't be thinking that…'

'Oh, but I am,' she said. 'And you know as well as I do that this is the only path available.'

'They won't take it,' Dorian said. 'Hell, I wouldn't!' he exclaimed.

'What are you on about?' Veldrin asked, in utter confusion. 'And who's _they?'_

Maevaris drew a deep breath, and paused for a further long minute. 'Alright,' she said, once she had gathered enough courage to speak. 'How do you say I am sorry, in Elvhen?' she asked, looking to delay revealing her thoughts even further.

'Ar abelas,' Abelas bitterly chuckled.

'Really?' Maevaris inquired, eyes wide in amazement. 'Your name is _I'm sorry?'_

'His name is technically _sorrow,'_ Briala frowned. 'What are you thinking, Magistra Tilani?'

The blonde woman bit her lower lip. 'Ar abelas, then, my friends,' she softly uttered. 'I have once warned Veldrin that I am really good at politics, and you're about to take a very un-sugared tasting of it. You are not going to like it,' she warned.

'I'm not liking it,' Dorian mumbled.

'Speak your mind, Mae,' Vel said, visibly bracing. 'What is it that you and Dorian see that we do not?'

'The only way that you get your borders without starting a war is if you buy them.' Maevaris dryly said. 'We won't be going to Radonis and the Magisterium with a plea; we will be going to them with an offer they cannot refuse.'

'We have no amount of gold that would constitute such an offer,' Abelas said.

'It's not gold you will be offering,' Maevaris said, remaining silent, and allowing the realisation of what she had meant to slowly, freezingly creep upon the three elves; Vel caught it first, and turned away from her human friend, shivering. Briala understood next, and covered her mouth with both hands. It fell to Abelas last, and he, in turn, bent as if his spine had suddenly snapped.

'I cannot,' he uttered, on a shaky breath. 'I cannot…You are despicable!' he whispered, snapping straight and darting to his feet.

Maevaris bowed her head to the insult, her lips drawn thin.

'I would not accept this, Abelas,' Dorian said, shaking his head in disgust. 'I would not…'

'Then,' Maevaris implacably said, 'more the fool you, Dorian. The only thing that Arlathan has that the Imperium desperately wants is _our_ elves. We do not want your jungle; we want you to return our stolen _property_. Offer Radonis this, and you will have your borders in the bat of an eyelid. No one will oppose it – in truth, it might well be the very first thing that will sail though the Magisterium without debate.'

'You're heartless, Mae,' Vel whispered.

'No, sweetness, I am pragmatic, and I shan't deny a certain level of self-interest, here.' The blonde Magistra said. 'The higher one rises, the more precarious one's situation is – Tevinter may look like a fortress, but we all know it is not. If you think with your heads, and not with your hearts, you will see that I am correct. This is a solution that _will_ fly, because we shall be giving Magisterium what it truly wants… You do not wish for this to be the Magisterium's demand, and I assure you, they will demand it; we are pre-empting that by bringing it to them of our own accord. We will also be pre-empting other demands, such as say, a tribute of a thousand heads a year in exchange for the Imperium's warm protection. Also, Abelas,' she followed, 'if _you_ think about it, what I just suggested will take a lot of undesirables out of your hair.'

'By selling out thousands of tortured, enslaved innocents,' the Sentinel growled. 'Your house elf,' he spat, in Veldrin's direction, 'might well wish to return to you – kindly she was treated, free and respected in all but name. Do you think that those who die in toil and sweat in your salt mines will be as eager to return to the whips of their masters?'

'You just said yourself that you are unable to control them,' Mae spoke dryly. 'They will be the last of yours you will sell out.'

'You cannot swear to that, Shem'len,' Abelas hissed, 'and even if you did, your word is nothing to me.'

'Nor to me,' Briala spoke up. 'Humans made promises in Halam'shiral, and we see how well they kept them!'

'I am not a fickle Orlesian Divine, Marquise,' Maevaris coldly said. 'I am a Magister of the Tevinter Imperium who heads a third of Senate, has means to buy majority in Publicanium and the sheer, shameless vaunt to blackmail or destroy all who stand against me. I am a defender of my people, all of my people, round eared, knife-eared or horned, or indeed, three foot tall and bearded. Inform yourself on my rise1, then speak to me again with more respect – were I not born in the wrong body, I would be an Archon candidate, and you will not lapse in your meekness towards me, either.'

'If you want your borders, this is how you get them,' Mae decisively said. 'No wars, no bloodshed, no final solution to the Elvhen problem. If Arlathan wills to live, it must return what it has taken from Tevinter. And now, knowing this,' she gently followed, shifting her glance to Abelas, 'are you absolutely sure you cannot last hidden for another decade or two? _'_

'To what end, Magistra Tilani?' the Sentinel asked, in utter defeat. 'As Keeper Lavellan well points, we shall not create a worthwhile army within that time…We may live much longer years now that the veil is weakened, but we do not mature faster than humans; quite to the contrary, in fact. If we wait two decades we will simply be riper for plunder, and we shall lose then more than what we do not willingly give now…Heavens, how do I decide this…'

'Think as Solas might,' Veldrin said, in a faint voice. 'Ask your counsel within Arlathan…'

'But think whom you take in that counsel with cold clarity,' Maevaris said, slowly. 'Flavius…'

'He has been nothing but wise and trustworthy,' Abelas responded. 'As Keeper Lavellan told me he would be.'

'Yes, but he is not Liberato,' Dorian grunted, from the depth of his chest.

'I fail to…'

'He's a slave, Abelas,' Veldrin gently clarified. 'If we go before Magisterium with this offer, Flavius will be one of those who'll have to be returned in chains. There will be many who'll take great pleasure in that sight, and he well knows this.'

Abelas lowered his glance. 'Perhaps he will yield to the greater good,' he said.

'It doesn't matter,' Dorian replied, shaking his head. 'Even if he goes of his own accord, he will be placed in chains the moment the ships make port. His was the highest profile Elvhen desertion…'

'Radonis will forgive,' Vel contradicted. 'He saw Flavius as a friend.'

'It's not Radonis that will seek to punish and humiliate him,' Maevaris contradicted. 'It's our dear friend Cassius…'

'How can you not take that distasteful man out of your hair?' Briala shot. 'Will _me_ to do it, and I will bury him so deep no scavenger will find him!'

'And so, start a war in Magisterium the consequences of which not even I can predict. The great difference between myself and Cassius is that _I_ lead my fraction but his fraction leads him, Marquise. He's but their loudly barking mouth – silencing him will only create a louder howl.' The blonde Magistra said. 'Not to mention that you will commit an act of war against the Imperium, as an official of the Orlesian Empire. I, personally, would greatly welcome Cassius coming to an early accidental demise, and should that offer stand in five years, I might take you up on it with glee.'

'Doing it now would be counterproductive in a million ways,' Dorian agreed. 'But, indeed, Abelas, Flavius' stance on this will be heavily dictated by his personal welfare. Think well…'

'I shan't betray a man who gave me his trust, and whose trust I have earned.' Abelas dryly answered. 'If I am to make this abominable choice, I cannot exclude the voice that might speak loudly and coherently against it.'

'I agree with him,' Veldrin softly said. 'This choice might be the last Flavius makes of his own will. We should not take it from him.'

A great silence followed in her words' wake, and all five sunk to their thoughts.

'Have we started the ticking of a clock, by meeting thus?' Abelas dared ask, at long length. 'How long do I have…'

'The wards we have set for my library allowed none to hear us,' Dorian said.

'None bar two,' Veldrin sadly reminded. 'And they are my task; none of this shall come to pass or outlast Radonis' rule if we do not have _them_ on side. Abelas,' she said, turning to the Sentinel, 'we've not started a clock yet, but I suggest you hurry…The option to stay hidden is still there,' she whispered. 'Give this thought a fair hearing too. I'll speak to the dragons, and shall meet you at the Crossroads within two days.'

The Sentinel nodded, and stood.

'Ma serannas,' he non-directionally said. 'Do you intend to face them alone?' he asked.

'No, I am going with her,' Dorian decisively said, leaving all stunned. 'Moral support, as it were,' he shrugged.

'You should not breach their sanctum, Shem,' Abelas dryly said, looking over his shoulder. 'She was greeted as an equal, while you…'

'I was also greeted as an equal,' Dorian said, frowning. 'You're making a face like out of all the things you've heard today, _that_ was the most horrible,' he spoke, when Abelas' gaze turned to sheer disgust.

The Sentinel spoke no further, though; he passed though the eluvian and left, not caring to take his maps with him.

'Gods, he looks as though we just spit in his mouth,' Briala said, arching an eyebrow.

'We sort of did,' Veldrin dryly replied. 'But, I dare think we did that by taking Solas down a notch or two…'

'Well, it was deserved – only fools start wars without calculating what happens if they lose, and both Solas and Abelas did that. You should go, too, Vel,' Maevaris interrupted. 'The Old Gods don't seem to be the patient type, and they know we are plotting with those they despise.'

'Can you truly see to Senate?' Briala asked; the blonde Magistra nodded.

'Even more so because Josephine Montyliet is in town,' she shrugged. 'Forgive me, Marquise, I did not wish to demean you before our sour friend, and add what he would doubtlessly regard as a third untrustworthy element to the plot, but Orlesian recognition is secondary. The nation whose recognition we need first and foremost is Antiva.'

'I am insulted nonetheless,' Briala said, dryly. 'You're saying that you needed the shape of my ears more than you factually needed my council…'

'Yes, well, go chew on it, and try not to regurgitate.' Mae said, with her lips drawn thin. 'Varric is a man of great conversational talents, and he assures me Antiva is in dire straits – if we ask them for a piece of unused land to permanently lower the price of fish…I have exchanged many a letter with Ambassador Montyliet over the years, and she seems amenable, so I am pretty sure we can get to a zone of agreement. If Antiva poses no resistance, and immediately concedes land to Arlathan, as it stands now, Orlais will not have to jump though too many hoops. You may thank me at your leisure,' she snarled.

'I'm not sure whether to thank you or to be scared, Mae,' Veldrin said.

'I am not where I am because I bore a divine mark, doll.' Maevaris said, smiling. 'Quite to the contrary. And thanking me is enough – I love you to bits, babe.' She said, giving Veldrin a tight hug.

'Any other advice from the tar pits of politics?' Dorian queried, standing and looking horribly apprehensive.

'Yeah,' Mae answered, keeping her arm around Veldrin's waist. 'Don't bring Lusacan lilies. He hates them with a passion.'

* * *

1 Now, Mae might sound over the top here, but she is not. Out of our entire cast, Radonis aside, she is the only one who _is_ a non-incidental politician; unlike Dorian, who is interested in it, but ultimately innocent and very little likely to play in the shadows, she was raised for this role, she loves it, and this is her playground.

* * *

Good evening all :) And we doubt anyone has love on their mind there...

Thanks for visiting, reading and commenting.

Cheers, Abstract & IvI


	49. The Fate of Nations

Blessed are they who stand before

The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.

Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

 _ **Benedictions 4**_

* * *

 _Patience, why are you living with the illusion that we are the only ones…_

'Did you hear that?' Veldrin asked, turning to Dorian in fright; the man nodded.

'I told you they call you Lady Patience,' he said.

'Still makes me want to puke.' Vel answered. 'And I have not been drinking, so…'

She sighed and sat on Razikale's wing, wistfully looking out over the Nocean sea. 'No all-knowing God would see me as patient.'

'I think, in fact, they are the only ones who do see the patience in you. Myself aside, of course.' Dorian replied.

It was not hard to think of what had caused his words; a mere fortnight before, Veldrin had crossed paths with Alexius Hadrian in the hallway of the Pavus mansion – the man had had tears running down his cheeks, and rushed to leave as if a bear had been giving him chase.

'I am sorry, Vel, I am so sorry…' Altus Hadrian had said.

She'd not understood, and moved to bar his path. 'Lexi, come on. I am alright with you not attending my swearing in – no reason to be _that_ sorry. Stay the night,' she'd said. 'Whatever you and Dorian had a kerfuffle about, he loves you more than to just kick you out. We will see to it in the morning; you can sleep on my couch…'

'If only,' Lexi had said; she'd frowned in surprise. 'But he, in no uncertain terms told me to remove my useless self from his house, and not even dare speak to you, so…'

'I've never heard that one before.' Vel had cautiously said. 'He's just pissed, though why he'd say such a thing is beyond me…Let's let the night be counsel; it's my house too, and it's a long sail to Quarinus.'

'No, he is right…You trusted me, and I betrayed your trust, Vel,' Lexi had said.

'You can't mean that. Come on. When Dorian is pissed off, he is really pissed off, don't take him seriously…How many bottles in was he?' she asked.

'You don't get it,' the man had whimpered, meeting her glance but not being able to sustain it. 'It was I who betrayed you to Cassius,' Lexi said. 'This, all of this, is my fault…'

She'd felt anger and taken a seat, for the simple reason that her knees were weak; of course, she'd blandly thought – Leliana's traitor, the one who knew about the veil manipulation, the eluvian, about the tranquillity…about Kieran's whereabouts, Morrigan's presence…And it had been there, staring her in the face…

'Whatever payment you received,' Vel had shakily said, 'better be worth it. What was it he gave you we could not? What…'

'Do not lash me as well, please…I am a dead man walking already, and have been since that accursed night…I did not sell you to him,' Lexi said; he, too, was trembling, and kindness prevailed. 'If you believe nothing else, just grant me this. I simply had no choice…'

She had believed him, and though her anger had not been assuaged, it had not had time to surpass her surprise and sorrow.

'Have a seat,' she'd said. 'Come on. We have been friends for a good five years. The least I can do is let you explain. Come on.'

Lexi had looked at her though eyes rimmed red by many tears shed in silence, and crashed onto a chair, hiding his face in his hands. 'Dorian merely cast me out. You will kill me, when you learn...I'm not even afraid of it, you know, you would take great mercy on me if you did, so, please…Kill me,' he begged. 'I cannot live without Dorian, and this is what I must do if…Cassius took me and put me to pain, Vel, but I did not even gain my life by that surrender…. I told him all I knew not because I feared death, Vel, please believe me, oh Gods, oh, Gods…'

'Why, then, Lexi? you must have known that Dorian loves you as no other; he loves you above me.' Veldrin had said. 'He'd have forgiven you that you that in a heartbeat!'

'Cassius threatened to _out_ me,' Lexi had said. 'Both me and Dorian…'

She had raised her palms to the merciless heavens. 'Dorian would not give a flying fuck about it, Lexi. You _know_ that – how stupid are you?'

'Yes, well, kaffas!' Lexi had rasped, raising her eyes to hers, and finally sustaining her glance. 'I know Dorian would not give a flying fuck – because he is a Pavus. _You_ are a Pavus, and both of you are national fucking treasures. What will it take for either of you to grasp that I am not part of the gilded elite you are part of? I am a little mage with a little name – I cannot afford to be _outed_. I have a family, Veldrin, a family whose fortunes depend on which hole I stick my dick into…'

'We _are_ a family too, Lexi,' she'd muttered. 'Would have been unpleasant, granted, but it's not like anyone who cares to know doesn't know…Outing Dorian would be a storm in a tea cup at this point, it would have been a storm in a wine glass before, and I would be right there to deny it into smithereens – heck, if Cassius even tried it, I'd say it's me you're sleeping with, not Dorian…How stupid were you?' she had repeated. 'You should have come back _home_ and told us, not run to Quarinus, and we'd have fixed it. Bloody hell!'

'Not like this, Amata,' Lexi had said. 'You don't understand. For as grave as the consequences of my treason are, on a grand scale, my personal treason is greater…I have a son on the way, within a fortnight. Do you see it _now,_ Vel?' he'd pleadingly whispered. 'Do you see…'

And then, yes, she saw, it was all clear as day, and it was her turn to avert her eyes, not in shame, but in anger. No wonder, she'd thought, no wonder Dorian was _that_ pissed. To have a son two weeks from being born, Lexi must have…

'You've been sleeping with your wife,' Vel had whispered. 'And not in the last month…All this time…You betrayed Dorian, not by selling us out, but by resigning yourself to what Tevinter always meant you to be…'

'My name is so small,' he'd whispered. 'I had to...He doesn't understand, he is a bloody scion of the great House Pavus, he doesn't need to play by the rules, but I…I destroyed everything, because I cannot eschew them – I needed a child. I needed public, screaming confirmation that I am not a deviant…And, as I spoke to him, now, I realised none of this is relevant in the face of his anger – no, not his anger...his pain, I…I crushed the heart of the one person I love,' Lexi said, in a broken voice, 'and I know now that love him more than I love my name. But it's too late…'

'Oh fuck, Lexi,' Veldrin had breathed out. 'This is the last thing we needed now.'

'Do you think he can ever forgive me? Do you think you could…you could ever forgive me?' the man had begged, leaving his chair only to kneel before her, and take her and in his. 'It is by my cowardice that the one you love…'

She'd wanted to punch him in the face, but she hadn't – he seemed so frail, scared, and wounded that she could not add to his torment. 'Like you said,' Veldrin had bitterly responded, 'It's a bit late, now.'

'You are no longer wanted in the Pavus mansion,' a guard sternly said. 'Magister Pavus ordered that you should be removed, especially if you tried to speak to the Magistra. Altus Hadrian. Please depart without needing employment of force. You are no longer welcome.'

'Vel, please…' Lexi begged.

She'd nodded for him alone, and extended her hand, bidding the guard to wait.

'Can you give me some time?' she'd asked. Lexi had risen his glance to hers, in insane hope. 'Can you…fucking…wait?' Veldrin had snapped at the guard, who'd pressed in closer.

'Magister Pavus ordered…'

'I know what he ordered!' she had yelled, standing and menacingly closing in on the man in her turn. 'Go tell him his wife is having a strop, and wait a god-damned minute!'

'Magistra,' the guard had said, not sounding in the least intimidated, but rather taking a tone of fatherly kindness, 'it is for your own good as well.'

'I know,' she'd whispered. 'But I can't let it end like this. I can't let _them_ end like this.'

The guard had seemed doubtful, and, for a second, glanced upon her as if he'd been about to embrace her, wife of his master or not, elf or not. 'I'll tell him you don't understand Tevene when you are having a strop,' he'd said, granting unexpected reprieve. 'Elves,' he'd sighed. 'Women. I'll go tell him…But it will only be a minute. Please, Magistra. He needs to leave – the Magister is out of sorts. Badly,' he'd said, 'out of sorts.'

He'd mercifully spun about and taken no haste in ascending the stairs.

'Alright,' Veldrin had rushed to say, turning to Lexi. 'Go speak to Maevaris about becoming her Altus…'

'If I tell her what I just told you, she'll stab me in the eye with a hair needle!' Lexi had breathed.

'I see no other way in which you can remain in Minrathous, or return to it for a meaningful length of time, after…after your son is born.'

'You speak as is I wished to be present in Quarinus,' the man had bitterly said. 'Which…'

'…which is absolutely necessary, given how far this all has gone,' Veldrin had dryly replied. 'It will hardly do for a loving father not to hold his new born aloft to the joyful and relieved House Hadrian. Besides, while you may care nothing for his mother, your _wife_ , you will care for your child – because it's a child, Lexi, not a mantelpiece ornament or a step on a fucking ladder...'

'Would you believe me if I told you that I…'

'No,' she had briskly interrupted. 'And _that,_ above all, is what I don't want to hear, because if I do, _I_ will wring your neck; I'll tell Mae to take you as Altus, and that she should only blind you, and not kill you, alright?' Vel had said, rushing over to the coachman's little desk and starting to scribble, angrily and hastily; so hastily, in fact, that she broke the tips of three quills before she managed to finish the note. Since tears were running down her cheeks now, too, she tore the parchment in a few places as well, and completely messed up her diphthongs, but…

'There,' she'd said, handing Lexi her scribbled note. 'Go.'

'Vel…'

'Just go.' Veldrin had said. 'Just…just give Dorian time to lick his wounds, and come back to Minrathous in due time. If you are with Mae, you'll be close enough and far enough at the same time…We'll live though this, Lexi. We've lived through worse.'

'I haven't,' the man had said, standing and bowing his head so low his chin touched his chest.

'Well, that's how we gilded elites learn in crises,' the elf had spat. 'Go.'

'What if he never forgives me, Vel?' Lexi had shakily asked.

'Then, between myself and Magistra Tilani, we'll at least make sure your son is born to fortune and a legacy.' She had said, making it obvious that he had not attained her forgiveness either. That he probably never would.

She had ascended the stairs to Dorian's room three steps at a time; she'd not thought of the damage Lexi had caused them both – as the guard passed by her, on his way down, she'd thought of Dorian alone, finally alone.

She'd found him burning letters, and she knew whose letters they were.

'Amatus, don't.' she'd said, carefully closing the door behind herself; she'd counted five empty bottles of wine upon the mantelpiece.

'And why not?' Dorian had asked, smiling. 'All these are lies. He was supposed to be like me. He was to marry in name only. But he has not, he's fucked her, for who knows how long - he has a child on the way…He could at least….at least told me his wife is with child by another man! He could at least have tried to lie!'

'That makes him less brave than you are, but it does not make him a bad man. Dorian, brother, don't…'

'Would you forgive Solas? If, in all this time you were waiting, with cobwebs growing across your cunt, he'd been dipping his dongle in every pond in sight?' he'd asked. 'What am I saying? He'd never betray you like that, nor would you betray him - both you and Solas are _too perfect_ for any inconvenience of human reality to touch either of you! You are not human in the first place!'

'This is your life you're burning now, Dorian.'

He'd defiantly half unwound a parchment, then threw it in the flames – the smell of burned seal wax filled the room.

'I'm burning a lie. Or well,' he'd sombrely considered, 'not one. Many.'

'Stinks like hell, to be honest.' Vel had said.

'Yes, if only lies stunk when they were uttered, then we'd not say them, write them or believe them. It's only when we burn them that they stink outright, and that is how we can tell…You know what? Why don't we…' Dorian asked, staggering towards her.

'Alright,' the woman had said, eyes wide in surprise. 'Our guard told me you are badly out of sorts, but I didn't imagine it was this bad…'

'It's the most logical thing in the world,' he'd spat. 'People are doing it left and right, it seems, and it's not like either you or I have anything left to lose…'

'I still do,' Veldrin had softly said; she'd nonetheless not stepped away from him, and allowed him to steady himself by putting his arms around her shoulders. She'd embraced him in turn, tightly, and it was only then that she'd felt his fury melt to despair.

'No, you don't,' he'd sobbed, hiding his face in her hair. 'You'll never have Solas…You'll never even have revenge on him…Not…this kind.' Dorian had followed, struggling to even articulate words. 'And it's the only kind of…of revenge _you_ could have; the world is taking its due, but…you…'

'You have seen Solas,' she whispered.

'Yeash, I have,' He answered. 'Or did you think that Lexi thought to confess, even when the inevitable is a fortnight in coming? Ha! That's why…we should…just…'

'Amatus,' she'd whispered, feeling she was shivering in turn, and pushing him away only far enough to meet his glance and caress his cheek. 'No…'

'If we…You'd rip Solas' heart out, Vel,' Dorian had hissed. 'You would…Not the Imperium, not the Old Gods, just…you.'

She'd softly shaken her head. 'But I don't want that, Dorian.'

He did not seem to hear her. 'You should though,' he'd stuttered. 'You should – it would be,' Dorian whispered, 'the only thing you've done for yourself – not for the continent, not for _the people -_ since that accursed Mark, which was _his_ fault in the first place…'

'Let's get you to lie down,' she'd gently said; he'd allowed himself to be led, but he'd not let go of her when he'd tumbled above the covers – his grasp was stronger than she'd ever felt it, but she'd still not felt a single tingle of fear as she'd allowed herself to be dragged onto the bed. She fell above him, but slipped off and curled by his side, holding his hands to her chest.

'You know,' Veldrin had tried to joke, 'I think that was close to the classic excuse of – and I tripped, fell, and landed on his…'

'Yeah, another one Lexi could have tried,' Dorian had mumbled. 'But we can't…we can't do _it_ like that, Amata. We have to,' he uttered, with solemnity only a king or a completely drunken man could muster, 'we have to,' he'd hiccupped, 'be deliberate about it.'

He'd lifted himself on his elbow, and looked at her from above. 'As deliberate as _they_ were when they did it to _us_ ,' he'd breathed.

Veldrin had chuckled, but decisively shaken her head. 'No, Dorian.'

'I won't be as disappointing as you imagine, you know, I've been with girls before,' he'd childishly protested.

'Women, Dorian,' she had sternly corrected. 'And that was when you were thirteen, which is at least twenty-five years ago.'

'Was it?' the man had frowned, earnestly trying to remember. 'Really?'

'Yees,' she had laughed, 'it was. Felix told me that's how you and Alexius Gereon met – he found you in a brothel entangled with at least four ladies of great skill but ill-repute, and…'

'…and I invited him to join us, yeash,' Dorian had nodded, in sudden remembrance; his eyelids were heavy, Vel had noted. He'd soon fall asleep. 'What was Alexius doing in a brothel anyway?' Dorian asked, mostly of himself – his mind was wondering from his pain, and that was a good sign as well, Veldrin had thought. 'Livia was still alive, and she was one fiery…'

'He was looking for you,' the elf had frowned.

'At my father's request,' Dorian had sourly said, making her immediately regret her words. 'Because the great hope of House Pavus could not be…Eh,' he'd all but literally burped. 'Magister Halward Pavus must have been relieved that it was girls…women. Whatever. I should've known right then and there I'll never win. Deviants never do – sooner or later they marry women, they make babies, they surrender, lest society buries them or they bury themselves in shame of what they are…I don't want to delay the inevitable anymore, Vel. At least I love you, and you love me. I didn't buy you; you didn't buy me, let's just…Be my wife. Truly, be my wife…Make _him_ …them…pay.'

He'd briefly closed his eyes, and the hot tears on his eyelashes had dripped onto her face, mixing with her own when they ran down her cheeks. He'd trailed them with his fingers.

'Lexi thinks that you and I are the winners of this world,' Dorian had said. 'But we, alone, only ever truly lose; what is all I have, if I can never love or trust…what do our power and our wealth give us, if…'

'You don't know life without wealth and power, Dorian,' she'd kindly responded. 'You were born with your name, as you were born with your green eyes, your pleasant face and your magic. You were born human. You can no more imagine yourself Lexi than you can imagine yourself an elf.'

'Human…Is that why you…'

He'd not gotten the chance to finish the question, for the woman had lifted herself up and kissed him on the lips, in such a way that no kiss between them had happened before. He'd parted her lips to hers, and slipped his tongue in her mouth, even as he pulled himself atop her, and caressed her breasts with the sides of his hands – he placed one knee between hers, parting them slightly, and Veldrin lost herself to the kiss and the touch, then lost herself to the kisses he trailed over her cheeks, and down on the curve of her neck…

'You don't disgust me in the way you think you do,' Veldrin had whispered. 'You do not disgust me at all.'

She clasped his face in his hands, and lifted it from her own; his eyes were tightly closed, and his tears kept falling on her cheeks. 'We're better than this, Dorian.'

'Why, Vel, why…' he'd chocked out, even before she'd slipped her hand between their bodies to his soft, unwilling groin to offer an unspoken answer. 'I love you, so much.' Dorian had hotly breathed in her ear. 'You can help me with that…you can, I can show you, how, I won't degrade you, I…'

Still, there was only sorrow and loss. 'Children should be made in love,' she'd whispered, 'not in revenge on others, or for gain…Let's not repeat Lexi's blunder, alright? Let's not…let's not feed this heinous cycle that makes Tevinter what it is. Let's just be us.'

'I do love you,' he'd said as if he had not heard her, 'and, as for having human children…you know all too well,' he'd growled, 'that you will never be one of your own people again. Never – have you seen how Abelas looks at you? Solas took that from you a long time ago – why would you not give me, us…at least, at least…this?'

Vel had run her fingers though his hair, and for a moment, a mere moment, allowed herself to imagine the unimaginable; for however drunk he might have been…It was not necessarily the temptation of sex – not alone, at least, though her body's response to his touch had been far stronger than she'd thought it would be, certainly stronger than his body's response to hers. But it was not that.

The temptation of _normality,_ the temptation of a life not spent waiting…for a lover she'd never have, for recognition she would never attain, of a life where she was neither national treasure, nor public good, at least within these walls and with this man she did, indeed, care for. And Dorian was right, she'd thought – there was perhaps grace to surrender when defeat was inevitable; there would never be true passion between them, yet what use was passion when it had dealt them blow after personal blow…

She'd once more kissed his lips, then shifted minutely to kiss his forehead; Dorian's eyes were dull, not with sleep, or drink, but with such hopelessness as she had never seen in him – the brief, foolish temptation turned to dull ache, and settled in the pit of her stomach.

' _They_ only win if we let them, Amatus,' Vel had said, and this was the final _no._ He understood it as such, and pressed no further, simply letting his cold forehead fall to her shoulder. 'If I thought for one moment that you could live with denying what you are…'

Dorian had sighed, and rolled to lie by her side, his forearm across his face.

'Not even I can fight alone, forever, Vel…I mean,' he'd whispered again. 'I don't know why the fuck you and Solas do it, but I fucking get _how_ – he waits for you, you wait for him, and in this, neither of you is truly...without the other, no matter how hopeless it all is. I really meant every word I said to him, knowing that you are still stupidly abstinent and faithful to him…really…he…It lifted his heart…and I want to take that from him, now…Gods, I would take it from the entire world if I could, because if I can't have it, why should…anyone…'

' _I_ am alone, now, Amata, truly alone... I thought I and Lexi had what you had, and now I know…'

Veldrin had leaned her forehead on his shoulder. 'You and Lexi have more than me and Solas ever had. You had a life. We had three kisses and some stinted caresses; you...'

'We had a lie,' Dorian said. 'An eight year long lie. And it is not the infidelity I cannot stomach, Amata,' he sighed. 'If he'd just gotten drunk and…'

'It is the cowardice,' she nodded.

'…and where it led,' Dorian weakly uttered. 'And to think on that night, on _our_ last night he had the brazen daring to ask if I was sleeping with you!'

He chuckled madly. 'He asked if I was sleeping with you, while _he_ …'

'I know,' the woman had whispered. 'I know, Dorian. I am so very sorry. But,' she had brought herself to say, 'he loves you. If he could take it back…'

'Don't even try,' he'd hissed. 'That's why I didn't want him talking to you. I knew he'd try, and then you'd try, and then that Mae would try, and in the end, it would just hurt more…I don't know what you're made of, woman. If you knew, if you truly knew what's happening to Solas in those dungeons, because of Lexi's…'

She'd breathed in and out, deeply; she'd felt him shudder, and he'd held her closer, mercifully remaining silent.

'It'll pass,' Vel had softly said.

'Like it did for you, eh?' he'd muttered. 'Sorry,' he'd slurred. 'You don't deserve that. Sorry. I love you,' Dorian whispered.

'I know,' she'd simply said. 'Look,' she'd followed, wiping her tears with the back of her sleeve. 'Do me a deal.'

He'd huffed. 'Take advantage of a drunken and heartbroken man, will you?'

'If I'd wanted that, I'd ask you to play Wicked Grace,' Veldrin had half joked. 'No. Let's just sleep on it, alright? If you still feel like baby making in the morning, we'll find you a clean, discrete Antivan professional to make to make a baby with. One that vaguely looks like me, of course,' she'd laughed, without mirth.

'It will be Soporati,' Dorian whispered; she'd lifted herself on her elbow and frowned.

'Are you for real, Magister Pavus? Plastered and heartbroken, but still with your eyes on the prize, eh?' Veldrin had shot. 'And then, you'd blame Lexi…'

'Don't go there,' the man said. 'Just…'

'Mages can have magic-less children,' she'd implacably answered. 'Felix was a prime example; plus, you can't know which blood will prevail, so, _if_ you still feel like taking revenge in this way, and letting your father's ghost beat you is still not a concern, we'll do that. I'll take it as mine, we'll handsomely pay the mother to vanish, if you wish, or we can just take her as a nursemaid, so she can be with her babe, and you'll have your revenge – petty and misguided as it is.'

'Don't go…'

'There?' she'd gently said.

'No, just don't go.' Dorian had sleepily uttered. 'I don't want to be alone, tonight.'

'You'll never be alone, Amatus,' Veldrin had said, putting her hand on his chest. Dorian had put his hand above hers, whispered – 'Deal.'

Then slowly, sob by sob and sigh by sigh, finally fallen asleep.

She'd taken his boots off, fought to free him from his robes – for, when he was asleep, he truly felt as heavy as a log - and rolled him under the covers, then lay above them by his side, still holding his hand. Despite his muttered protests, she'd prodded him from time to time, when his snoring got too loud.

She too, had fallen asleep at the break of dawn.

And, yes, Vel now thought, lying back on the dragon Goddess' wing, perhaps Patience was not that ill-fitting a name after all.

Razikale caressed her hair.

'We sometimes choose our names,' Razikale said. 'Sometimes, our names choose us.'

* * *

'Who else but Patience,' Lusacan followed, in a deep growl, 'would come before us to restore future to a people who'll hate, fear and malign her regardless? As once we were hated, feared and maligned…Dawnbringer,' the dragon said, minutely shifting his gigantic head towards Dorian, 'thou who have nothing to fear of us stand ill at ease…'

'We shallt not hold your speech with Pride against you,' Razikale said, shifting to sit up, but continuing to distractedly caress Veldrin's hair. 'Admission of his crimes is fairer to thine ears coming from his lips than accusations of the same would be, coming from ours.'

'It is not that,' the human managed. 'It's simply…'

He cast an uncertain, and unwillingly frightened glace to Lusacan; the dragon snorted in dismay, all but realising Dorian's fears and blowing all three humanoids from the top of the gate, but relented and took his human form. In the faint light of the moon, it was hard to see that Razikale had assumed hers only by half – or rather, that she'd assumed her true shape, for her ears were pointed and her eyes slanted.

'Thank you, Lord Watcher, Dorian said; Lusacan frowned slightly.

'You know that mine change of shapes makes me not in the least different in power or thought,' he said.

'He simply thinks that it makes thee less likely to squish their puny forms than if you were, you know…' Razikale laughed, taking a deep breath of her pipe, then exhaling a puff of smoke in the very precise contours of a dragon in mid-flight. 'By mistake, of course,' she wisely added.

The expression on her brother's features only soured. 'Yes, yes,' he said, 'not willingly, as I might do with Pride's defeated minion, if he dared face himself to me with notion of his master's righteousness still plaguing his mind.'

'Perhaps it is then wise of Abelas not to show himself,' Veldrin said softly.

'Ah well, little sister,' Razikale said, still smiling, despite the fact that her tone was ice cold and chilling, 'he'll come, and he'll come begging not on his knees, but on all fours, as befits him, if he hopes to spare his people the fate that he and his past master, not to mention the current one awarded ours.'

'What do you mean?' Vel asked, in a trembling voice; the dragon Gods exchanged a glance.

'Thou hath not shared Pride's long past deeds of questionable valour with her, Dawnbringer,' Lusacan spoke, narrowing his eyes.

Dorian hesitated, and lowered his glance. 'You already know I did not,' he said, 'and I would beg…'

Unexpectedly and awkwardly, the Lord Watcher patted him on the shoulder. 'You do not beg, Dawnbringer. You merely ask…yet, Dorian of the Pavus line, some truths should not be hidden from the worthy. Thou think that they would cause the Lady Patience greater pain, yet they might lessen it, if spoken without malice...'

'What did he do this time,' Veldrin sighed. 'What _more_ …'

''Twas not him alone,' Razikale responded; she took a thoughtful drag of her pipe, closed her eyes and expired towards the sky. 'There is no hiding that in your heart and in your mind you hold us harshly to account for the destruction and scattering of the people…'

'I've never sought to hide it,' Veldrin whispered. 'Nor did I think I could…'

'It is good so,' the dragon Goddess nodded, 'and you do not absolve Pride of his rightful guilt, hence no ill-will we bear thee. This ancient war was not a mere clash of Gods, in which the latter born were casually caught; it was a clash of the people themselves, and their side showed ours no mercy, even after Pride rendered our people helpless, by taking us from them.'

'One cannot kill a God without killing their Temple,' Lusacan said, indeed, without malice, 'and Temples are not the stone of which they're built, they are the beating hearts within them, old and young, true believes or hypocrites. Even with us imprisoned, they did not stop until our Temples burned, stone, hearts and all…'

'I understand, Lord Watcher,' the mortal elf said, in a tiny voice.

'Solas said they were simply…fewer,' Dorian whispered, lowering his glance.

'How few children raised in the wrong faith are few enough to be irrelevant, Dawnbringer?' Razikale asked, and neither mortal answered, for there was no answer to be given.

'It was on their behalf that we first took flight,' Lusacan followed, looking out on the sea. 'Our own wrath was great enough, it's true, and from beyond the wicked walls where he had imprisoned us, we could not even feel the other barrier, nor knew that our foes had on each other turned already…'

'But the people, the last of the Elvhen do not know this,' Veldrin said, pleadingly. 'I understand that there was no unilateral wrong, yet these people have lived millennia not knowing…'

'Nor will they ever, little sister, if their shepherd keeps leading to the Wolf,' Razikale said. 'Here,' she said, offering Vel her pipe. 'Doesn't mend heartbreak, but clears the mind's eye.' For the first time since they'd ascended Imperator's Gate, Veldrin looked frightened and in need of rescue, so Dorian valiantly rose to the occasion.

'Would this be the highly illegal kind of smoking herbs that is smuggled from Par Vollen?' he asked, coming close to the two women. 'The kind that's more illegal than blood magic?'

'I acknowledge no such things as Par Vollen and illegal. I only care that the herbs are indeed of the very best kind,' Razikale confirmed with a decisive nod. 'Why, want some too?'

'Dorian,' Vel breathed, not knowing how much she could shake her head without the dragon Goddess taking insult in it.

'What else could happen?' Dorian muttered, not as much accepting the pipe as taking it from Razikale's fingers; one draw was enough for him to stagger and sit down on the dragon's wing as well. 'Oh, this _is_ good,' he sighed, in obvious pleasure. 'Have some, Vel,' the man said, leaning past Razikale, with what looked like blind courage, and extending the pipe to his now truly frightened wife.

'Should be really be deciding the fate of nations while smoking spindleweed on a wall?' Veldrin asked, taking advantage of the eye contact with Dorian alone to widen her eyes in protest.

Lusacan threw his head back and laughed. Beneath them, from Imperator's Square to the Minrathous' harbour, altars were coming alight with candles, and prayers, and hope that the unknown might somehow be forgiving.

'How else do you think history itself does it, Lady Patience?' the Lord Watcher said, between chuckles. 'Do you find,' he said, turning towards his sister's dragon body, which now served as a comfortable seat to three, 'that history itself is anything but a drunken man ambling along a riverbed of sharpened stones? The duty of the Gods is not to guide that man, or the waters, or the sands,' he said. 'The duty of the Gods is to keep that man ambling on, and do our best to keep the sharpened stones from being deadly if he falls. This truth too, Solas forgot.'

'This is...' Vel tried to speak, choking on the smoke. 'Oh, Gods…'

'I know,' Lusacan said. 'The whiff!'

'Just so thou knows truth from lie, Patience, he means the stargazer flowers and the unwashed crowds, not my herbs.' Razikale helpfully pointed.

'I mean both, Mystery,' Lusacan dryly replied. He sighed, and bit his lower lip in thought. 'They'll have no love of thee, the people,' he once more said. 'For generations.'

'Nor would I expect them to,' Veldrin said; despite the fact that Razikale's herbs had a mighty odour indeed, she did feel lighter and more at ease to speak. 'I mean, Gods…They've had their entire religion and history upturned in a matter of half a decade. We did believe that our Creators were essentially good, and Solas was the only outright evil lurking; he came along and told them that it was not so. We'll come to tell them a different story now, and take...Of course they will not love me. They'll hate me outright.'

'Yet hate unites as much as love, if not more,' she whispered, giving Razikale back her pipe, 'and it is, in the end, not me that they should come to love. For, I, alone, can give them nothing, while you can give them all…'

'Hopefully not _quite_ all,' Dorian said, with a little frown, 'but…'

Razikale laughed warmly. 'Thou feel such fear again, and for no reason,' she said. 'If we should forgive part of our people whom, as Patience asks us to believe, forgot us through no fault of their own, we shan't proceed differently for the others. Even if dwindling, Tevinter kept some faith in us, and it will soon fully remember that it thrived under our wings.'

'What of…' Dorian dared, not speaking his thoughts fully.

'The others?' Lusacan completed, smiling wryly. 'Within a few generations, they will learn or most of them will die. We shall not take this choice from them, for this is not our way. It is Pride's way to think that he knows what is good for all, and look what Pride has wrought. We will make clear that we have no enemies, but that our love is for our friends alone.'

'Still, the veil is weak,' Dorian insisted. 'Can you alone protect the humans of the continent from its effects?'

'Where traces of the true faith physically remain, perhaps,' Razikale thoughtfully responded. 'Where there are no remains, but the faith rises, we can attempt to rebuild, and we shan't be alone...Yet, Dawnbringer,' she followed, eyeing him curiously, 'I see, but do not understand why you dread the weakened, wicked barrier so much. We know that though hath walked the paths of the first people, and still stand here unscathed. Ah,' she said, her silent intrusion in his thoughts a soft caress. 'you believed Pride when he said that it will ultimately be lethal to all humans, if torn it stays.'

'Is it not true?' Veldrin asked.

Lusacan shook his head, in what was neither confirmation nor denial. 'For all these years,' he slowly said, 'and my old bitter friend still learns no half way…It is part truth, but here I would not fully accuse him of lying, for this we know, and he does not. It is not long ago, in our sight, that lyrium and the Fade were indeed lethal to the first humans exposed to them. Part of the reasons why that changed is indeed that the first people taught them safe usage, but part of it is that humans, too, adjusted.'

'You have been in the beyond thou calleth fade,' Razikale added; Dorian reluctantly nodded. 'It is thy knowledge, then, that in itself, it is not even hindrance. It is this strange limbo of the first people's pathways that humans are not accustomed to, but it is within thy power to adjust. And you will,' she promised, smiling. 'Just not as swiftly as thy kind always desires. I see the future, and both of our people are in it.'

'You'll then allow…' Vel said, in a voice strangled by hope; Razikale chuckled, with an unpleasant undertone.

'Because thy ask is so sweet to our ear, Lady Patience,' she said; it was a jest though, and Veldrin shuddered.

'We will allow them the same choice as we allow all others,' Lusacan coldly uttered. 'We'll have no enemies, but our love is for our friends _alone_. Mythal's useless pond keeper, however, is not our friend, nor is he thine, nor is there any remedy to that but death.'

He saw Dorian cringe at the words, and frowned. 'The Lady Patience's aura rubs on thee entirely too much, Dawnbringer. He is a critter not even dangerous, but meaningless; he cannot lead the people more than he could guard that puddle he was sworn to keep.'

'I merely think it is a waste of a good man,' Dorian said, his courage bolstered by Lady Mystery's herbs.

'You do know that amid us all, it for you that he saves most of both hatred and contempt.' Lusacan said, watching the Magister through narrowed eyes. 'If he could do it, it is you that he'd end first.'

'I know,' Dorian shrugged, 'but he cannot touch me, so if he chooses to give himself a hole in the stomach by chewing dryly on his hatred and contempt forever, then he'll simply have to enjoy heartburn for the rest of his eternity. I care not. You say,' he followed, reaching for Razikale's pipe in blind, and not seeming in the least surprised when she giggled and handed it over, 'that humans have the power to adjust. Solas and Abelas clearly think that this makes us all efficient parasites, I guess, but I think that they fail to see that power to adjust in themselves...'

'The Wolf changes his hair, but not his habits,' Vel sadly spoke; both dragons chuckled knowingly, though Lady Mystery attempted a half frown.

'Ah, the wisdom of Andruil survives the ages,' Lusacan said – he was nonetheless amused.

'Or at least the _legend_ of her wisdom survives the ages,' Razikale responded, rolling her eyes.

'Be kind to the one human in the circle and speak in Elvhen doodles not,' Dorian muttered. 'I get that my train of thought might not be true for Solas, but Abelas himself has shown undeniable ability to adapt, if not his thoughts, then at least his behaviour. He might not be the leader Arlathan needs him to be, but he is still the one they have. We'll make no strides towards good will if we ask for his head, along with all the other terrible and humiliating things you know we'll ask of them.'

'We need their good will not,' Lusacan smirked. 'We, equals among equals, take as we need and we give as we want – learn this, Dawnbringer, as _thy_ first truth.'

'Think then, instead, of the effortless power you would gain if he was your first true believer,' Dorian said. 'Or of how much more strength your truth will gain, if you are merciful where he was not…Think of how much more Pride will suffer, if you take his Temple from him without upturning a stone or shedding a drop of blood; if I were Solas, I'd change my name to Shame, then…'

Lusacan chuckled, and exchanged a glance with his sister; she smiled and shrugged in turn.

'So many words,' the Watcher said, 'to simply ask us to spare a man he himself has spared.'

'So many words to simply ask that we should hastily take all from Pride, and end his torment sooner,' his sister said, in turn. 'The Gods see all, Dawnbringer,' she reminded.

Dorian shrugged. 'I am neither too proud nor too patient to think it,' he said, ignoring Veldrin's pained glance. 'It did cross my mind, and it's not only him I'm thinking of,' he added, stubbornly focussing on the pipe.

Lusacan tilted his head to the side. 'Our little sister is not only being patient in this,' he responded, in a toneless voice. 'She is being wise, although it pains her greatly. The future of her people takes precedence here, and she knows all too well that by entrusting Arlathan to our _love_ , she will be tearing out Pride's heart and holding it before his eyes. She knows that this is pleasing to us.'

'Besides, she is unsure if she has forgiven him, herself, for all that she already knew of him, and all she's come to learn,' Razikale added, with odd kindness.

'I do still love him,' Veldrin weakly said.

'Yes, little sister,' the Goddess responded, waving her fingers to regain her pipe, 'we know you do. Still, 'tis the man alone you love, and not the God he was. The God that he still is, in many ways.'

'I only knew the man,' Vel said, glancing in the distance; Razikale caressed her shoulder, in genuine compassion, then drew deeply of her pipe.

'You knew the God as well, but could not see him,' Mystery said. 'It was not our intent to trap you alongside him, Patience,' she gently followed.

'In truth,' Lusacan added, 'it pains us that we are. Preserving scale and balance, thou art the only one beside us to know the pain of his betrayal. I,' he said, a strange tremor in his voice, 'thought him a friend, and I too thought I knew the man before the God; for many long centuries, I thought the two of us were playing chess, and even though I usually see through the hearts of others, when I intently look, and mine is the gaze that follows all, I did not see that I alone was playing chess, while he was merely gambling.'

Vel bit her lower lip, and willingly accepted Razikale's pipe. 'Entire worlds,' she nodded, a hard edge to her voice. 'He gambled, and he lost. In a Godly manner,' she chuckled, chocking on the smoke, but still laughing in earnest. 'And to think that all of this happened because I had good ball catching reflexes! My brothers would die laughing, if they were not already…dead.'

She lay back on the dragon's wing, and stared up at the indifferent sky, flinching slightly as Razikale leaned in above her.

'No, Patience,' the Goddess said, for the first time sounding confused in turn. 'Your hands and his are touched by fate. Do you not…'

She shifted her glance to her brother's, and Lusacan shook his head.

'She cannot feel it, Mystery. She is a but a child in time's eyes, and well,' he sighed, 'you use these foul plants to keep yourself from seeing too far along the weave of fate. They tie her mind in so many knots that not even thy power or mine can untangle them.'

'I cannot feel it, true,' Vel whispered. 'But,' she wisely added, 'you are timeless, and could tell me.'

'Yes,' Dorian muttered, lying back in his turn and taking Veldrin's hand in his, behind Razikale's back, 'you could tell _us.'_

'You would have given him to death, if you could have,' Razikale said. 'It was not us to stop thee, nor was it the Undying annoyance that calls itself Imshael.'

'Eh,' Veldrin whispered, 'it was fate? Were we both _fated_ to this?'

'If our wings had carried us but two heartbeats slower, Pride would be dead by thine hand,' Lusacan said, frowning. 'What else but the sharp stone riverbed of fate would thou call this?'

'I'd call it bad luck, fucking fuck,' Vel mumbled.

Razikale looked to her brother, and he looked to her; she clenched her jaws and nodded, but it was he who spoke.

'If the minion of the defeated Gods wishes to have it, he will have to beg for Arlathan before those the most despises,' Lusacan said. 'You, Patience. The Dawnbringer. The gathering of the people who are not his. The Ferryman of Tevinter. So the Gods speak, and so it shall be. He will feel no gratitude; he will believe that he has won it, when all those who he hates will have freely given it. He'll know not that the Dawnbringer put his will across mine, and won for kindness, and, so for the third time, preserved him from true death.'

'He'll not have a fourth chance,' Razikale said. 'Tell him of this, Lady Patience, when in two sunrises you meet him at the crossing of the first people's paths…Nor does he have the choice of staying hidden, which you kindly and unwisely offered.'

'I thought you said you will not actively intervene, nor bar his and their choices,' Dorian frowned.

'And we are not going to,' Razikale responded. 'But time and fate wait for no man, and Abelas is, as of a few months ago, out of favour with both.'

* * *

Whew, long chapter after a long break! About time we updated. Things have happened for both Abstract & IvI over this long month of July - some good, some bad, some VERY good. Hopefully we didn't scare you with the first part of the chapter - we did need to explain poor Lexi's predicament, as it was sort of hanging, and we apologise if you felt for heartbeat we might alter Vel and Dorian's relationship in that same part. We never will, he was just drunk and heartbroken, and uncharacteristically vengeful - but he is still Dorian, as we know and love him.

Thank you for your patience! and ofc, leave us a note, if you wish, that is one of the VERY good things.


	50. A Rose as a Rose Was Never Counted

_"He who asks for the mercy of the masters_

 _Will stand accountable for murder and theft_

 _And be made example for the slaves of other cities,_

 _That they might not have the courage to rise up._

 _"They will taunt you and humiliate you_

 _While they hang you in the marketplace._

 _They will pelt you with offal while they call you_

 _Broken, a coward, and a failure._

 ** _Shartan 9: 21-30_  
**

* * *

'Another count of ten?' Solas asked, seeking not to look behind the human whose numbers while he delivered pain were always spread in thirds and quarts, and certainly not to the overly small, yet heavily barred oubliette that other humans had dragged into the dungeons, and set just as far out of clear sight that it demanded to be looked at.

'Not at all,' the human answered, smiling pleasantly. 'A triumph, and you are a most honoured guest.'

'I shall refuse, and stand for ten.' Solas said, dryly. This man was now familiar to him, all too familiar, and all too human.

The human smiled wide. 'Refuse your own victory? We do insist you will attend – lift him,' the man ordered; the other humans did, ripping the skin and flesh of his wrists and ankles open as they removed chains and fetters. He turned and left.

Standing to counts of ten had taken much, so, once pulled to his feet, Solas missed his restraints, for without them, he was without balance as well – the men who came to pull him out of his cell enjoyed the sight, and put all too much strength in lifting him, their help as bruising as their hatred.

All bar one tried to trip him, and all bar one left eager painful marks where they touched him; they marched him forth towards the moving cage in which he could not stand nor truly sit. Its door creaked open; he noticed then that it was placed on tiny, ill oiled wheels, and saw the wheels before he felt that a collar was being placed about his neck.

It had sharp barbs on the outside of the already biting leather; by how it had been slipped over his head, Solas could guess that it could be loosened as well as tightened with a mere tug. One of the men tried to turn the spikes inwards; all bar one laughed.

'Go in,' they ordered, giving him not a heartbeat of decision before they pushed him forth, into this rolling cage. They'd done it fast, maybe, too fast, for the collar bit at his throat, chocking him. The one who had neither laughed nor left a painful imprint on his body lowered himself on one knee to lock the cage.

'Your good lady bids me to warn you,' he whispered.

'What of?' Solas managed to whisper.

'You will need strength for this day,' the man who had not laughed said, standing.

''Tis not enough,' the torturer said; the roll of the cage was halted by such a jerk of the leash that Solas all but lost his gift of bread, and knocked his head back on the thick, rusting bars of his newly appointed public abode.

'Strip him bare,' the torturer he knew so well spoke, in a commanding voice.

Forgetting all else, Solas looked upon himself and found himself lacking; he had not soiled the tattered remnants of his breaches, but they were the last, the very last dignity afforded him.

Within this cage, he could neither stand nor sit – he could barely seek respite on his knees, but that too would become pain after a while…

They pulled him out, by the leash, and laughed, and laughed…

'Strip him bare and give him back a wolf pelt,' the torturer once more ordered. 'He wore that one with pride!'

'Lord Watcher,' he heard Veldrin say, 'No, please. Not this.'

She was somewhere near, but out of sight, and sounded slightly out of breath too, as if she'd just been running… _to warn him,_ the strange guard had said…But of what?

He tried to think, yet there was no clarity to be had, as if his senses had completely taken over his reason – the only certainty he could have was that Veldrin's plea had at least caused his gaolers to stop short; not because of her presence, he knew all too well, but because…

'Such is my will,' a voice Solas had not heard in over ten millennia spoke. He recognised it instantly however.

 _Anaris._

'And I am not best pleased by your attempt of preparing Pride of what is to come,' Anaris followed, in an oddly calm voice.

'We had no agreement to the contrary,' Veldrin responded, her voice now settled, but still laden with pain and fear. 'Knowing a heartbeat in advance won't hurt him less...'

'We disagree, little sister,' Daren'thal breezily replied. 'But,' she added, in ancient, familiar chimes, 'the Lady Patience does have right in saying we had not an agreement that no warning would be given.'

There was a silence then, a hesitation from all three, and Solas suddenly wondered whether Veldrin even knew that he could hear them. Anaris and Daren'thal, on the other hand...His heart sank. Whatever these two had in store for him now might have been less painful than hearing them speak to Veldrin as if they had considered her one of _them_ , or hearing her speak back as if she'd easily accepted the status. More painful still, the fact that Veldrin was still trying to spare him at least part of this unknown, terrible thing that was coming; perhaps the purpose of the wine dipped bread had been to numb him to some extent too. By all this, he gathered it must have been truly worse than all that had happened to him thus far.

And still, he wished her away from these two with such intensity that his own plight was secondary; and still, he wished that he had had a slither of power left, to clear her mind and heart of himself, as he might have cleansed her features of the vile markings which marred them. There was no such luck, and he had no such power left. All he could do was listen.

'After this day, we will have taken all from him,' he heard Veldrin whisper. Her voice was honey to his ears, her plea acid vinegar to his stomach, yet, as if her words had truly carried weight, the guards did not move to further humble him. They, too, listened, seemingly entranced.

The pause amid the three lingered for a second longer, and though he could not see Veldrin, Solas had no other word for her in his heart other than _vhenan._

'If you so treat him, it will be me you will be punishing, Lord Watcher,' he heard her say.

Almost bare as he was, and knowing he would soon start to shiver, Solas wondered why Veldrin assumed her little words would make a difference; Daren'thal, had, after all, foretold that Solas' small cage would never be as painful to him as knowing that the entire world was Veldrin's cage. Perhaps the one who saw the knots of fate had been dreaming of this very moment when she had spoken thus.

'I am powerfully disinclined to grant this,' Anaris said, dryly.

There was a movement, a shuffle of robes.

''Tis undeserved, the reprieve sought,' Daren'thal lightly agreed. 'But then,' slyly added, 'one minor pain can distract from another, greater one…'

'Fickle are both my sisters,' Anaris muttered, now, in obvious frustration. 'He'll have no warning,' he said, 'nor should he be spared any…'

'He will not. He will be humbled and mocked enough,' Veldrin bravely responded. Her courage lasted but a second. 'Please, Lord Watcher,' she begged, 'please. Not…not for him,' she whispered. 'For me. I cannot…'

Solas could imagine her kneeling as the words were uttered, and so he took a step forth and tried to say _no,_ that nothing could be worth this _;_ the collar bit back as soon as he inched forward though, and caught the word in his throat.

'For you, Lady Patience,' Anaris said, in an unreadable tone. 'Set thyself strong on the task ahead, your wishes shall be heeded,' he added, his voice decisive, but neither cold nor commanding.

There was more shuffling of robes – an assured step aside a hesitant one trailing the staircase, thus Solas guessed Daren'thal was leading Veldrin away of his small cage, and out into the great open cage that was hers. Anaris hesitated too, and so did the men paid, by faith or gold, to enforce his will.

And so, silence stretched amid all, again, and Solas began to shiver in earnest.

'Lord Watcher,' the head gaoler dared, 'should we proceed with your first orders or…'

Anaris stepped into the chamber, and, though he was not in his true form, Solas nonetheless recognised his features as quickly as he had remembered his voice. The colour of his eyes had changed somewhat, shifting towards the unnatural; his human form may have been solid, but it was still a projection of the power he had left nestling in his dragon body, and the glow of his eyes showed it. It made little difference in overall - his presence was the same, and there was a familiar smirk pulling the left corner of his lips upwards. It exuded authority, and a kind of quiet, chilling satisfaction, far more, Solas thought, than crude and public humiliation, which could have been inflicted at any point, could inspire.

The dragon god measured his defeated nemesis for a few long seconds, but the expression on his features did not change in at all; he shifted his glance to the guards, seemingly pondering his next words – none dared lift their eyes off the ground.

'Lord Watcher, should we…'

'You've heard the words I spoke to Lady Patience,' Lusacan distractedly said. 'Leave him as he now is,' he said, for a heartbeat looking straight into Solas' eyes; there was no change of expression in his own, though his followers barely subdued a collective gasp of surprise. 'Besides,' he added, 'the Lady Mystery too, is in the right – we should not distract him from his triumph…'

He turned to leave, hands clenched behind his back.

'The enemy of all the Gods should still be appropriately attired,' Anaris said, not looking over his shoulder. 'The wolf pelt, to mine thoughts should fit the fine audience.'

'Yes, Lord Watcher,' the head gaoler said, sounding relieved for things to have returned to whatever he recognised as normality; still, as he'd been so unexpectedly robbed of part of his pleasures, he made sure that the rest of the ministrations still to be delivered were applied with far more than the regular diligence.

Any yet, as nothing worked as intended – though to the human's experienced eye, the shackles they used to secure the elf's wrists and ankles within the tiny oubliette cut to the bone; he turned the spiked collar with its biting side inwards before he actually needed to control the creature with it, and made sure one of his henchmen tied a blindfold that the head gaoler found completely unnecessary so roughly that they violently hit the back of the elf's head against the cutting, wide bars of the cage, leaving a two inch gash…despite it all, it felt as if they had been handling a body with no feeling whatsoever, for the prisoner made no sound, nor resisted anything, even reflexively.

Limp in pain or fear, the human had thought, unsure of whether to be glad of it or not; he too had no inkling of a suspicion of what was in store for his charge, and was not particularly pleased by the fact that the transfer of the prisoner would not be a repetition of the first time he had been brought to Minrathous, but it seemed that this time, the enemy of all the Gods was for the Magisterium's eyes alone. Perhaps he would be shown afterwards, he considered, giving Solas a final, bruising prod before the cage was set on its way.

There was no reaction to this, either – and for once, the torturer was right; Solas was truly frozen in pain and fear. Not for the reasons that the human imagined, though. Hearing Veldrin plead for him before his enemies and knowing that the display had probably been intended for his benefit had turned it all even more heart-rending, yet that was merely the pain. The fear had not truly started until, freed of his enemies' presence, he'd recalled something that he might otherwise have gladly forgotten.

He'd not seen Magister Cassius in almost two days; it'd been two days since he'd been asked for Arlathan, and he could think of only one reason why.

 _They've found them_ , he thought, and he was grateful for the blindfold, for it swallowed his tears.

He squinted in the sudden light, but the cacophony of cheers, insults and even applause deafened him even before that; it was all overwhelming, especially for one who's only source of light had been a weak torch or a burning brazier upon which irons of various forms were heated to incandescence…

Slowly, however, his eyes adjusted to the brightly lit room – at first, enough to discern that he had indeed been granted a position of mocking honour, for his cage had been placed at the foot of the marble podium doubtlessly intended for the speaker. He thus had view of all, and all had view of him, those sitting below, and above the pulpit.

Immediately above him, a row of seven seats, behind a semi-circular, high teak wood desk, with an elaborately gilded row of carvings on its top, but surprisingly simple panelling below. While his eyes still adjusted, Solas judged that the head carvings were quite old, but that the plain ones were obviously new, given the polish's sharp gleam. Perhaps, he thought, Chantry symbolism hastily removed.

Above that, in the second row, alone upon its grey marble podium, the Archon's seat. There was no religious symbolism to the desk before it – its embellishment was carved in the likeness of the Ferryman's Ring; the Archon, he, Clodius Radonis who was the heir of Darinus, would sit suspended between the unchanging world and the unpredictable one, for above his seat there was another ring of seven.

On opposite sides of that desk of seven, Anaris and Daren'thal already sat, five chairs between them left for the dead and the forgotten.

Below, he could not see Veldrin. He could see Dorian Pavus in the very front row, though, and he focussed on him, before noticing that the scene below him had tiers too; in an amphitheatre of such size and build as Solas had never truly seen, there were slices of colour within the mass of black mage robes.

Three quarters of the circular room, he judged, wore black robes embellished with a variant of Tevinter heraldic which saw the two rising dragons embroidered in blood red, or fiery orange silk; it was not Venatori symbolism, not outright, but it was sufficiently reminiscent of it to be evocative. Another slice of humanity wore robes embroidered in grey or faint blue – these were few, and they seemed to have been deliberately seated to separate those who liked their dragons in the colour of blood from the other side of the room, which was…

…which was, to his tired eyes, an exuberant explosion of colours.

The Tevinter heraldic was present here too, of course, but those who occupied the ascending rows around Dorian Pavus chose what Solas could only assume were their house colours for the weave that depicted the rising dragons – bright blue, warm yellow, green and even purple. The dragons were not even stylistically the same, in obvious sign that while these mages too were subjects of their Gods, there were variations in the way the Gods were perceived.

Unlike in the rows of uniform red and orange, the Tevinter crest was smaller or larger, sometimes only discretely placed upon a collar or a sleeve, and sometimes outrageously large. Dorian himself had the rainbow-coloured peacock feather crest of House Pavus on one sleeve, and the Tevinter banner on the other; still, all of these wore one or more tiny pieces of mirror sewed on their garments, like those Dorian had worn during the year of the Inquisition.

 _And I mocked him for it,_ Solas thought, dully, _without knowing that what this meant was signalling political allegiance._

And a dangerous one at that, the elf realised; the little sparkling mirrors, the small lights in the dark, the Lucerni…that name too he remembered, from the year of the Inquisition…were, in comparison to the others, painfully few. A quarter of the Magisterium, perhaps less, given the non-aligned grey and faint blue.

None of these had risen and clapped when Solas' cage had been dragged in. None had cheered. In stark contrast to the crushing majority, those around and behind Dorian Pavus were still, tense and attentive, as Dorian himself was.

All of them though, the fire and blood ones, the undecided ones and the lights in the dark were armed; he could see focus gems, most in staves, but others in necklaces or earrings, or even carefully embedded in the bindings of books. Even more frighteningly, none seemed ill at ease, in sign that while their dress might have been ceremonial, bearing weapons was truly habitual.

The little the elf knew of Tevinter history rose and writhed in his mind. It was true, then, he realised, that Magisterium was not a boring political assembly, and not only the literal cesspool he'd always liked to imagine. This was a gladiator scene, Solas thought – none who entered here were certain they would walk out alive; the doors, he numbly saw, were only at the back. The closer to the inner, lowermost ring one sat, the lesser were one's chances of escape.

 _And Dorian is in the very front row._

Solas had not intended to let his glance linger on _Magister_ Pavus for too long, yet he failed in controlling himself – perhaps it was the need for the reassurance of a familiar face in the storm. He still looked to Dorian long enough for the human to notice and meet his glance, and become even more tense than he already was. Dorian nonetheless pressed his eyelids together slowly, and breathed in deeply.

 _He's telling me to…be patient? Or brave?_ Solas thought, feeling that the tendrils of fear were embedded so deeply in his heart that each beat spread them though his veins, instead of bringing air and blood. _Where is Veldrin?_ The elf's mind raced.

As if he could read the question in the elf's eyes, Dorian nodded, and once more closed his eyes and breathed in deeply; he pointedly looked to his right-hand side, directing the elf's gaze to two empty seats. The gesture had clearly been meant as reassurance that his _vhenan_ was safe and about to occupy one of the two chairs - Solas could feel nothing of the sort. Whatever was in store for him here, Veldrin was not only about to witness, but she'd be in the front row too, even more, sitting on the narrow, cutting tip of a small arrow.

 _They are few, these men and women,_ Solas thought. _If the others draw on them, they would be overpowered in seconds, by sheer numbers…and still my Veldrin…_

'All rise!' an usher called, his voice akin to thunder. The way in which the room was built made sense now, so much sense...

 _If I breathe even a sigh,_ Solas thought, _it will echo and rise and grow along these walls, and all will hear it._

All rose.

Names were called out loud as the members of the conciliatus filed in, one after the other. The usher spoke them too fast for Solas to retain them in his mind, but, given the room around him, he knew that names were not truly the thing to pay attention to – the colours of the robes however, were, and in the row of seven just above him, all bar one wore black embroidered in red.

He recognised Cassius' name and face as he was counting.

The only person not wearing the fire and blood embroidered robes wore grey, and she came in last, so her name at least lingered in his mind, pointlessly.

 _Maryam of House Tullius, most recently of Vol Dorma,_ Solas thought, _why even bother showing you are unlike the rest?_ _what can you do alone against these six others?_

The voice exploded in his thoughts, then: _What can one woman do against the world who is against her, Pride? What did you do, when worlds against you stood?_

Unwillingly, he looked up and met Daren'thal's eyes, immediately knowing that she was not speaking of the human Magistra.

 _Everything. That is what she can do. Everything._

Solas closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath.

* * *

Hey all, we've been busy with Abstract's original fiction, but don't think we've forgotten about you :) As you might have might have guessed, Solas has a lot still we have to put him through ;)


	51. Free Market Rules

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._

 _In their blood the Maker's will is written._

 _Benedictions 4:11_

* * *

'Please, be brave,' Veldrin said. 'Please, Abelas, be brave – the worst is over.' She had whispered, not knowing whether she was being truthful or not. She clearly was not truthful to his ears, but he was too exhausted to fight.

'Could you speak with him, before…'

'No,' Veldrin sorrowfully answered.

'You could not even see him?' Abelas further questioned.

'No,' she once again replied, shaking her head.

'Then I cannot see how you can think the worst is over,' he dryly said.

'She means the worst is over for _you_ , golden boy – Lusacan already pissed on you from a height last night, and I wager that with Solas in attendance, you will not be his focus.' Maevaris intervened, frowning deeply. 'Stop prodding her, she is already raw. Are we ready?' she asked, looking about herself, to the small group that had gathered in the shadows before the main entrance.

Cassandra uneasily adjusted her new, and even taller, hat. 'As ready as I'll ever be,' she sighed. 'Maker,' she said, 'last night I thought I would strangle you with my bare hands when you sent me what were basically… _my lines,'_ the Divine of the United Chantry spoke, frowning at Maevaris – her anger lasted little, though, and she let her shoulders slump. 'I even thought of enlisting Varric to re-write things, just to spite you, but…'

'It was good wording, in the end,' Josephine tiredly added. 'I've changed some of the phrasing…'

'As have I,' Briala said, approaching the small group in hurried steps. 'Forgive my tardiness, ravens are oft not as swift as one might wish them to be. Celene had some objections to some of your writing, not the least of which was that you forgot to call her _Her Radiance.'_

Maevaris waved their concerns away. 'I don't mind,' she said. 'It would have been suspicious if all of us spoke the same words; as long as we are in agreement over the core content, I care not for how you were advised to change my drafting – that is why I sent it to you in advance in the first place. First gong,' she said, visibly bracing as a call of ' _all rise_ ' was heard from the chamber below.

'If you have engineered the vote as well as you have engineered us, Magistra Tilani,' Briala said, 'we should have fine sailing.'

'Ferelden?' Veldrin asked; the Orlesian and Maevaris shook their heads in unison, both proving knowledge that they should probably not have held.

'The man cannot be spoken to,' Cassandra replied, in their steads. 'He likes me less now than ever, and he cannot even be induced to hide it anymore.'

'We'll go above him soon,' Briala smoothly said. 'Her Radiance assures that the Thereins are not that petty...though, strange I find it, and Celene herself does too,' she thoughtfully followed, 'that they should act so. The region presents no interest to Ferelden. It is quite odd to see them do this only to spite…'

'Perhaps they have had correspondence from Starkheaven,' Josephine offered, in a strange, little voice; it was not so much the words, but the fact that Maevaris gave Josie a cutting glance that Veldrin noticed.

'What does Starkheaven…' she began to ask.

'One battle at a time, doll,' Mae hastily interrupted, her reproachful glance still lingering on the Antivan. 'You should be to your seats in the upper gallery,' she said, for the room beyond the door was growing quiet. 'We'll think of Ferelden on another day – it would be strange indeed the continent would be unanimous in its acceptance of a Tevinter Magisterial writ, anyway...'

'But will we win the vote?' Briala pressed – it was only right of her to do so, Veldrin numbly thought, for she had not been in the Archon's chamber, when, in the secret still of night, the terms of the motion had been first introduced, and it was better so. Perhaps not even she, of the trained and well practiced meekness might have stood for such forthright humiliation as she and Abelas had stood.

Indeed, as Veldrin had predicted, they had spent all of past eve on their knees, and indeed, Abelas had been made to beg in such a way that filled the heart with equal amounts of sorrow and rage – so much, in fact, that by the end of the encounter, Radonis himself had seemed uncomfortable with the Gods' conditions and pressure, and with the unrestrained, wicked joy, of six of his seven conciliatus…

Veldrin had kneeled and bowed her head along with Abelas, though the Gods had immediately made it clear that it was not needed. It had been though, not to their eyes, but to those of Cassius and his ilk; the Sentinel's suffering had appeased the dragons, but it had been her suffering to appease _them_ , the humans who truly saw the people as cattle alone.

The map of Arlathan's borders had been redrawn several times, and, during quite a few of those merciless revisions she'd felt that Abelas was shaking from all joints – in pain, or fear or rage or all. More painful to her still was that, not for a moment had he looked to her for some sort of comfort, hence proving Lusacan and Razikale right once more: the fact that she had shouldered all with him, the fact that Dorian and Mae had equally leaned in over the maps, each line of their quills pulling the lands that would be granted in exchange for lives closer to what Abelas himself had wanted had had no echo.

It had all felt as if he had not even seen her kneeling beside him, as if, not now, nor ever, would she truly be one of his; she would be, to his eyes, forever one of _them_.

'We'll win the vote, Marquise,' Veldrin heard herself say.

Briala narrowed her green, beautiful eyes in doubt, and pulled her Orlesian mask down upon her features. 'Advance payment,' the Marquise said, 'is not a guarantee of delivery, Keeper Lavellan. Remember Halam'shiral.'

Veldrin opened her mouth, but Maevaris cut her off again.

'If any of you,' Mae coldly said, 'could forget Halam'shiral for just one heartbeat, you would fare better. Let's go,' she said, clenching her jaws as a cry of _all rise_ was repeated. 'Radonis will be sitting now, we cannot keep him waiting.'

Josephine, Briala and Cassandra nodded, and were on their way to the upper gallery, the one destined for the public; Abelas was shivering though, and so Mae stopped to look at the two elves.

'Are we ready?' she asked – Veldrin looked to Abelas for an answer, but he did not look her way.

'By all means,' Abelas said, speaking and looking into the void.

'Won't be smooth by any extent of the imagination,' Mae said, in final warning. 'Cassius and the others have had a night's warning too…'

'You think that they might lean the other way?' Veldrin asked, wishing that she would not sound frightened, but knowing that she had.

Maevaris bit her lower lip, but the decisively shook her head. 'No,' she made answer. 'We have Radonis on our side, and the dragons'…blessing, I guess,' she sighed. 'They cannot turn, and I doubt they wish to. It's after all them who are actually winning the day. That does not mean they will not try to hurt us, if they can. Just remember that humiliation and personal insults are the resort of the weak mind, eh?'

'We already know that,' Abelas replied dryly. 'We've all come too far to expect good grace even in victory, hence...'

Maevaris nodded, and breathed in deeply. 'What is it that your people say?'

' _Mythal'enaste._ ' Vel said. 'Mythal protect me...'

' _Fen'Harel enasal_ ,' Abelas answered. 'The Dread Wolf protects all.'

'Yes, right, you are all insane, and you speak and unspeakable language,' Maevaris mumbled. 'Let's go.'

* * *

Whatever he'd imagined, whatever little he could have prepared himself for, Solas immediately understood that it would be much worse. For a second, he could not even process the sight of Abelas entering the core of the volcano, unfettered and fully armed.

Veldrin was just a step behind him, to his right, and the blonde, female Magister he'd so briefly caught sight of on Seheron to his left; both women looked radiant from a distance, he noted, in fright – Veldrin in her House colours, in a robe that seemed to be the Dalish variant of the one Dorian was wearing, her hair elegantly pulled back and pointed ears on full display. The human female, on the other hand, looked as if she'd dressed for all the eyes in the chamber to be on her, for she was the only one of about six hundred to not wear black, or something that might have technically been thought of as a mage's attire.

The dragons on her blue, velvet gown were embroidered in gold, and, in the weave, there were so many specs of mirror that she shimmered like a giant, gaudy diamond at each step. Not only that, but it was so tight and deeply split along her thigh that one could alternatively wonder how she could walk at all, or sit without revealing her under-garments to all who cared to look.

 _She is not dressed to cast, and she's unarmed,_ he thought.

Defiance…Or insane courage, Solas realised, briefly taking his eyes of the procession of three, to glance at Dorian, who looked as displeased and concerned as the elf had ever seen him.

To Abelas he could not look for longer than a second, as if the moment he laid eyes on his lieutenant, his fear had turned into a physical, dark veil and stole his sight. He wished that the desperate beating of his heart would drown his hearing too, but alas, no such good fortune came, so when the three came to stand before the Archon and Tevinter's false idols, he could hear them in full.

The two women bowed; Abelas did not.

'Praised be the Eternal Gods,' said both women, and the chamber echoed their greeting. He did not need to look up to know that Anaris was smiling.

'The blessing of our good-will upon you, Lady Patience, Magisters, all,' Daren'thal said. Heavens, Solas thought, he'd never realised how deeply he hated her voice, just because it was so beautifully melodious and soothing…

' _Salve,_ Radonis,' Veldrin and her companion further greeted, now straightening.

' _Salvete,_ Magistrae,' the Archon answered; he too had a warmth in his voice that Solas did not like, and looked at the two women with superior benevolence. 'You bring us interesting guests,' Radonis said, acknowledging Abelas with a nod…

 _What have you done, Abelas…Veldrin…What have you…_

The question pointlessly writhed in Solas' mind, recoiling from the answer as an eel might have recoiled from the walls of a too tight glass pond which only grew tighter each time it was touched.

 _They haven't found them. They've surrendered, the last of us, and they…I…_

He sought to meet either of their glances, yet neither looked his way, and from up close, it was plain to see that no matter how they'd thought they had mastered themselves, both Veldrin and Abelas carried only dread in their hearts, their pain, _his pain,_ rendering their eyes dull and glassy.

There was nowhere to hide, not from their words and not from the sight, not from his utter and final failure, thus he did listen, taking each word in a strange, voluptuous greed for suffering, as if he thought that the pain would finally become too much and kill him – still, no matter how one prayed, words could not turn to daggers, and could not kill.

The room around him was alive now, a monster that reeked of satisfaction and could barely contain its hunger. Once the tiniest slither of reason returned, it was not hard to guess why: it was a stage, Solas could plainly see, a stage designed for him alone, and with him at its very literal centre.

Abelas needed not speak the words of shame out loud, for the entire chamber probably knew them already. Nonetheless, they'd obviously made him do so, and they drank the dry and laboriously prepared legal document that was presented to them as if it had been the sweetest elixir, not bored by detail nor numbed by the tone of Abelas' voice.

It was a play, Solas thought with a known and greatly anticipated ending – no turn of phrase or ill performance would affect the enjoyment of the spectators, for, in the end there would be blood, not the fake kind used by mummers, but real blood.

And not their own.

Perhaps they were not even fully in the wrong to enjoy the play so, Solas considered, feeling as if he'd been standing outside himself and watching, in his turn; though blood and tears were in the air, he sensed that the drama had yet to reach its height.

Abelas was clearly crushed, and not up for the showmanship, but the rest of them, including Veldrin and her blonde companion were more than up to the task. Radonis even feigned surprise well enough that it might have passed for real when Abelas finally reached what Solas hoped was the end of his scroll. He too, had had to admit it had been not what he'd expected, not fully at least.

What he had thought he had been brought to witness was not a declaration of surrender, but a demand for land and recognition, as dignified as it could possibly have been under the circumstances.

He could almost feel hope by the end, which, Solas assumed, was the cruelty and the art of the stage setter; it was now, at the height of the tension that Veldrin's role became clear to him too – more humble than Abelas, the words of her borrowed language still wooden on her lips, she'd stated she was moved by the Elvhen courage on display, and would, as a serving Magister of the Tevinter Imperium and in true faith, servant of the Eternal Gods, grant the demand at least the acknowledgment of open vote.

'Have you filed, as demanded by Magisterial debate rules?' the woman in the grey robes…

 _Maryam of House Tullius…_

…had politely inquired. There was a fault in her act here, Solas considered, for she'd allowed her boredom at the proceedings to resound in her voice.

'Indeed we have, Magistra Tullius,' the blonde who had been standing by Veldrin and Abelas said, stepping forth and claiming centre stage.

For a heartbeat, as the woman strode past his cage to claim the speaker's podium, Solas felt strangely grateful - no one could possibly hold scrutiny on him, Abelas or Veldrin with this woman in presence; if this had truly been an opera, she was the director as well as the outrageous singer at its lead.

No hesitation and no droning, dead voice here – Solas could speak decent Tevene, but not to the extent to which he understood all words or all contexts. The speaker's meandering in and out of Old Tevene, as well as the names and dates of treaties and covenants called in support for Arlathan's independence act were difficult to grasp, yet understanding everything was not fully needed.

He could clearly hear the passion of his… _their?_ cause in the woman's voice, which did well enough for the words, while the effect she had on the entire chamber provided context: the impatient hatred radiating from the rows filled with fire and blood; Cassius, fidgeting, and so enraged that he was audibly grinding his teeth; Maryam of House Tullius looking as if she'd been about to snicker out loud; the sly, amused glance passing between her and Radonis, when both felt no other was watching…

 _The sly amusement of those who knew the betting horse race was fixed in their favour_ , Solas thought, _but nonetheless enjoyed the racing for the off chance one of the fine horses would fall and break their legs, and would be put down in full sight of the fine audience._

'I feel that I must speak!' Cassius' voice boomed from behind him; the man stood from behind his elevated circle and trampled on the robes of others in his efforts to gain the pulpit.

'You always feel like you must speak, Magister Cassius,' the woman who still held the speaker's podium replied, arching an eyebrow. 'Magistra Tullius, is Magister Cassius on the official speaker register for today?'

'The radical forces within this sacred land,' Cassius began, undeterred, 'are, as always, seeking to use our orderly and kindly nature against us…'

'Oh, please, not the sacred land speech,' Dorian muttered, briskly standing. 'If you're about to deliver it once more, I shall need a designated person to awaken _me_ from the deep slumber of sacred boredom. House Pavus has deep pockets, one knows where to apply!'

The laughter that sparked on both sides of the chamber did little to curve Cassius' anger, and Solas could not decide whether Dorian had made it all better or worse, as now, it seemed, Cassius lent his words the madness of conviction.

'We shall not set a precedent,' he shouted, roughly pushing Tilani aside, in such a way that disapproving murmurs rose from the stalls, 'where those who steal from us are received as honourable guests! We shall not set a precedent where thieves are as men of good standing treated! This house will not hold talks with a hostile nation – not again, not ever…We all saw,' Cassius followed, finding his stride, 'what talks with those who steal result in. We lost our rightful territory to Orlais. We are being held hostage by Ferelden…and now we speak to these?' he queried, widely gesturing towards all three elves. 'What next? When robbers come into our homes, should we also take a vote on…'

'We gather your meaning, no need to follow on,' Radonis said.

This man's eyes were as dark blue as a midwinter night, Solas thought, painstakingly looking over his shoulder to the Ferryman of Tevinter. Radonis' lower jaw seemed to be set in stone as well, cold and straight angled with a fine chisel. The man was posing for his statue as he spoke.

'Present me a solution, and not a problem, Magister,' the Archon said. 'What do you wish so that your leader may represent all of his people, not just the louder side of them?'

He thinly smiled at his own words, and there were a few loud chuckles, again, echoing from both sides of the chamber.

'It is our understanding,' Radonis followed, 'that the thus far unknown nation of Arlathan does not present itself to solely make demands of righting what it regards as a historical wrong, without offering to set right a historical wrong she has, herself, committed against Tevinter…It is, then, perhaps wise, to allow an argument to be fully made, before a counter-argument is offered.'

 _What wrong could we have to set right,_ Solas' mind raced. His very thoughts froze; he'd feared that the declaration of independence was to be followed by a dreaded offer of vassality, but this was headed elsewhere, and…

'Magistrae Tilani and…Pavus,' Cassius replied, spitting Veldrin's name, 'have duly filed, we, as your grace's concilliarum, have duly read their motion.'

This was not part of the play; a frightened flicker of a glance passed between Dorian and Veldrin.

'…not all in the chamber might have,' a lonely voice rose from the grey rows. 'The chamber cannot debate the unknown.'

'Let me, then, make brief the display,' Cassius snarled. 'His grace accuses me of hasty and lengthy speech, yet seems to find the light circus of the Lucerni entertaining – not all of us are easily distracted by all that glitters. Magistra Tilani will propose what the elf here,' he said, whipping his arm in Abelas' direction, 'has not yet done, and you shall all agree to it in all due, unpatriotic and short sided haste – this so-called Elvhen nation is not here to bow to us, as it rightly should. This so-called Elvhen nation is here to trade stolen lands for stolen goods!'

A murmur passed though the rows, and Solas was grateful, for the sound of it drowned the sound of his heart breaking, as if had been a twig.

 _You've not surrendered_ , Solas thought, wondering where his capacity for thought still stemmed from. _Abelas, Veldrin…You've not merely surrendered. You've sold our people out. You…_

'Yes, yes,' Cassius spoke, above the clamour of those who were genuinely surprised and the cackles of those who were not. 'They wish for a piece of _our_ country, in return for _our_ slaves; I am merely sparing you all the juggling of torches…'

'We gather, then, that without elves, my esteemed colleague's estates are prosperous and his coffers overflow.' Tilani said, dryly. 'Mine are not so fortunate, alas,' she sighed. 'Whose are?' she queried, addressing the question to the chamber. 'Show of hands? I guessed so,' she concluded, when no hands were raised. 'Perhaps the right esteemed Magister should enlighten us on how he fares so well…'

She abandoned the pulpit, for it was obvious that she would not regain it and strode lower, into the very centre of the pit. 'I was not my desire to bring this so crudely,' Tilani said, 'but Magister Cassius does seem to believe the Imperium can prosper in the absence of the prosperity of those who stand as its highest protectors, namely, us, Magisters, landowners, creators of wealth, all... That disastrous illusion being as it may,' she said, raising her chin and looking about the chamber, 'I am somewhat grateful for Magister Cassius' summary of our motion. The vote, deprived of legal technicality, is simple: we shall have our slaves and they will have their lands, or we shan't have our slaves, and we shall have a war, for, from these lands, they shall not easily be moved.'

'True, Arlathan does not pledge to become our banner,' she said, smiling to all. 'Nor will it be useful as a nation we may call upon for tribute, for truthfully, what tribute could we, under the protection of our Eternal Gods seek from such paupers? The leaves off their mud-built huts? The straws of their walls?' Tilani rhetorically asked, raising her hands to the ceiling, glitter and light streaming from her robes. 'Nay. We shall be given back what is ours, what we have, at our expense, nurtured, fed, educated and raised, and see to ourselves first and foremost. The power of the Imperium is such that generosity, and not aggression, can be shown to a repentant nation. Voting against myself and Magistra Pavus is a show of mistrust in the Imperium, as it has stood for millennia beyond counting…'

'And…I am now doing a most woeful impersonation of Magister Cassius,' Tilani interrupted herself, smiling. 'But for the foaming at the mouth, I have all delivered the sacred land speech we have all come to loathe and dread, and I apologise. I shall be brief, then - a vote for Arlathan's statehood is a vote for your well-being.' She briefly summarised. 'Vote with your purses, and not with your prejudice, Magisters. Give Arlathan its freedom, and regain your gold.'

Of six hundred and eighty seated, some six hundred and fifty hands rose, Veldrin's among them.

Solas inched forth, only to be pulled back by the biting leash about his throat.

'The call for such a vote is irregular, but the majority is obvious…Arlathan would concede to these terms?' Radonis asked of Abelas.

 _No,_ Solas wished to shout – the collar cruelly caught the word in his throat.

'Yes,' Abelas said.

'There can be no greater goal than peace amidst our nations,' Veldrin said, in turn. 'Wisdom prevails.'

She bowed to Radonis, or Anaris and Daren'thal; so rending was the sight that Solas did not hear Cassius trampling up the stairs back to his seat, nor Tilani quietly whispering to him and him alone, as she passed by the bars of his cage.

'You live to fight another day,' Tilani had said, shimmering past.

* * *

Thus Mae had centre stage today, and to some effect - she does seem to have taken a lesson or two from Tywin Lannister. Sounds like a good day for savage capitalism, and back-room dealing, hm? But at least Abelas has his city now...Gods help him, poor mite; the trouble is just getting started. I wonder if Solas sees that it was his actions that made this turn of events unavoidable; my guess is, he does not, but we shall find out soon enough, up next, when things are going to go BOOM.

Or at least start to.

Thank you very much for reading and commenting in our absence; we were at the seaside and in the Danube Delta, and it was really great to find comments upon our return from Internet detox :) In passing, and not to brag (just to cheer a bit, hope I don't jinx it) we might be on the solid path to a book deal for Abstract's (I don't normally talk about myself in third person, but!) original novel. I am partly saying that to justify our slow down in posting, but also because has been an amazing and confidence building medium.

So thank you guys for reading and sticking with us, and comments are always greatly appreciated, as always :)


	52. A Dark Recess

The Wellspring of All said, "None now remember.

Long have they turned to idols and tales

Away from My Light, in darkness unbroken

The last of My children, shrouded in night."

 _ **Andraste 1:8**_

* * *

Yet, there was little will to live another day, even less will to fight; it had all ended, in that pit of voles, with Abelas' _yes,_ with Veldrin's…There was nothing but loss and regret, and an eternity of empty time ahead, in which to feel both.

Not even the deceitfully soothing wing of rage descended; Solas was merely cold, within and without, for the first time in his long years, truly defeated.

He'd noticed that they had not bound him again long minutes after his human tormenters had withdrawn, and it took further, long minutes, mayhaps hours to understand why, and guess by whose orders – Daren'thal, he thought, leaning his head back on the bars of his cage, and looking to the ceiling without truly seeing it.

Daren'thal, the reader of thoughts and seer of futures, the one amid those best left forgotten whose cruelty had always been so hidden in her good looks and soothing voice, so veiled in her mist of her smoke that one barely intuited it existed…The Augur, so innocent and random in her wickedness and kindness alike…

 _Always the most dangerous of them all,_ he'd numbly thought, _the perfidious beauty of her wickedness lying in the fact that she most likely did not even know she possessed it._

Her long lost love for Urthemiel had been genuine and radiant, as his for her: Beauty and Mystery entwined, with Beauty drawn into the ranks of the first traitors and ensnared there not by personal will for power, but by the far more inescapable binding of true love. Without her, _they_ would never have been seven, without her…

 _And this was her revenge. The day had been Anaris', but this…_

Why let the painful niggle in a twisted shoulder or a lash call the mind back from where the true pain lay?

He thought of dying animals licking their wounds, and not realising the pointlessness of the endeavour; he thought of how they died thinking that there was still a chance, a cause, and envied them those last flickers of hope, their lack of awareness of the inevitable, the power to fight the numbness overcame them, and the last sleep descended…

Still, here he sat, knees gathered to his chest, not in awareness that death to follow, but in the absolute knowledge that it would not.

And he was not alone.

The other's eyes dispelled the darkness where he'd slithered to grieve, even the illusion that if he could never again hide from himself, he could hide from the others… _her,_ he bitterly thought. _Him._

'Why have you come, Anaris?' he asked, without lifting his forehead from his crossed arms.

'To watch you suffer,' the Old God expressionlessly replied. 'To _finally_ , truly watch you suffer.'

Solas clenched his teeth. 'And?' he whispered. 'How does it feel?'

'Primal,' the other shrugged. 'Brutal. Miserly. Vulgar. _Satisfying._ Pleasurable to an extent I never recall experiencing, even in my life before this one…The Lady Mystery,' he followed, approaching the cage, and softly running his elegant, long fingers across the bars as he indifferently strode by, 'needs not be here in physical presence, she can take delight from afar; I on the other hand could only watch you writhe, like the earthworm you are, and hence…'

'Go on, my brother,' he said, grinning a horrid grin, 'make my efforts worthwhile. Shed a tear or two…ask me, on trembling breath, _why.'_

'Why?' Solas asked, raising his glance to Anaris' – his voice was indeed trembling, but his eyes were dry; there was such a thing as sorrow too intense for tears. 'I'd thought that even you…'

'I…what?' the other ironically scoffed, pausing to tower over his prisoner. 'That I would so soon tire of watching you being lashed and prodded? I wonder why you'd think that, Pride – you yourself told the Dawnbringer that you acknowledge your pains are deserved, and long in coming. To your body, I could have done much more. We both know, though, that flesh is transitory, and so are its pains. Your pride as well I've merely scratched, not truly dented over these past few months…No, Solas, these games I've played with your frail and powerless form were for the entertainment of the humans in my care. My entertainment begins _now.'_

'I'd thought that even you would find it in your heart to not fully annihilate the people merely to crush me,' Solas quietly ended.

Anaris emitted a small chuckle. 'Is that what you think you witnessed, on this day?' he asked, baring a sharp canine.

Solas closed his eyes.

'You've once more sold them to Tevinter, this time, for good…Or you have forced them into selling themselves…'

The Old God laughed, this time in full.

'Ah,' he responded, 'the Lady Mystery is proven right once more. You are...truly, unchangeable, Pride. See,' he said, leaning on one knee to match the other's height sitting, 'the Augur told me that with your mind now rushing in all directions, you would soon find a way to cast us all as villains, once again, and that if I do not make haste in ripping another pound of flesh from you, you'd find a way to hide from what you now feel, and shoulder less than you should. No, my brother, we did not sell your precious shell of our past lives to Tevinter, nor did we twist their arms into selling themselves – _they_ came to _us_ , in feverish supplication, and we gave them what you could not.'

'A state,' Anaris followed, gracefully straightening. 'More so, a status; Godly protection…'

The rage rose, then, in Solas' heart, and it was welcome.

'I know you as many things, _my brother_ ,' Solas hissed, 'but as a liar, before this day, I knew you not…'

''Tis true,' Anaris smirked. 'Between the two of us, you are and you will always be the master of lies – I'm speaking truth.'

'Truth?' Solas spat, painstakingly rising to his feet in turn, and facing to his ancient nemesis with as much dignity as his weakened body allowed. 'Abelas, bending knee to you – truth? That…farce…that grotesque farce…within the heart of our foe's strength, truth?'

'You would have me believe,' the prisoner further queried, finding a last spark of fire, 'that Abelas and Veldrin agreed to the vile treachery that before all unfolded – that they willingly agreed to return tens of thousands of our people to slavery?'

'I made no such claim,' Anaris scoffed. 'Neither willed it, but both submitted.'

'To your threat,' Solas said, then staggered an inch back, truly holding on to the cage's bars for support. There was no amusement in the Old God's sapphire eyes, no smirk to turn up the corner of his lips.

'No, Pride,' Anaris slowly spoke. 'To the will of _the people_. I,' the Old God said, for the first time lowering his glance, 'must confess to a certain amount of unhealthy curiosity. Since my second awakening, I've walked the streets of _your_ jewel of a city more than once, seeking out corners where I and some maiden were once embroiled, seeking out chambers wherein books more pleasure brought than maidens…Even that little tavern on the western corner of the great flower market, where we two used to meet and play at cards, and drink more than our vaunt…You will remember it, I am sure; for centuries we met there, and it was there that Andruil first sat on your lap. I found nought but that, for all of my corners, and all of my rooms, and all my oases of peace were demolished, due to you. That place on the square still stands, and do you know what it is, now?'

'That place,' he whispered, 'where I thought I found friendship and you thought you found love? The place where I watched you first loving Andruil, then realising who and _what_ she was? The place where, on one night you could no longer stand the monster she is being in your arms, and you told her to be off you and forget you, and we drank until morn, just the two of us, alone, tossing coin after coin to the innkeep just to leave us to speak of everything and nothing and your heartbreak – do you remember that place, Solas? The people, _your_ people, drain their shit buckets there, or, if they're strong enough of nose, they outright shit and piss there.'

'This is what you brought back. Not even a flickering shadow of _our_ world, but its outhouse,' Anaris said.

'In the crowd I stood, when your Abelas, stony faced, broken and weak put the expulsion of the Tevinter slaves to the will of Arlathan's people…and do you think they paused to think, Solas? Do you think, for a second, the dregs you gathered stopped to consider the misery of others? I did not even join the clamour or their voices. I did not even smile. Though my heart sang with glee...'

'So no, my brother, your bolthole is now as demolished as all of mine…you cannot run to even the thought that I, or Mystery, or even Patience and Sorrow willed this fate upon Tevinter's slaves. The people, your people…'

'That can't be true,' Solas whispered. 'It can't be true,' he pleaded, looking into his lost friend's eyes, then swiftly shifting his glance aside, for he could no longer sustain the cold, sincere amusement in the other's voice.

'I know not how, or even why your lackey came to be so dear to the Lady Patience and the Dawnbringer,' Anaris continued. 'They did ask me to let him live, and taught him to behave in my presence in such a way that he might not arouse my wrath – they are children of peace time, those two, and for all the trials you faced them with, have little understanding for what you know so well: that wars end when one dances on the graves of their enemies. As you once thought you'd danced on mine.'

Solas softly shook his head. 'Thus,' he whispered, 'you did not merely go to Arlathan to see what your humans made of it…You went to kill Abelas, too, in such a way that Veldrin and Dorian would never know you'd done it.'

'Quite so,' Anaris nodded, with a hint of a smile. 'You, I still need alive, if only for amusement; him, I do not – I feared that he would kneel only to reach for the dagger in his boot, yet there was no need for me to act against him and no reason for doubt; your people killed him with a show of hands, and it was priceless to watch, Solas, almost as good as watching you die now…what had you hoped for, Solas?' he questioned, lingering bitterness in his voice. 'The same thing you had hoped for millennia ago, I wager – that freed of us, the people would cease to be wicked; that with the Evanuris gone, a better nature would finally come to the fore? That with the humans gone…'

He snickered.

'You think, my brother, that you sailed from one grave error to the next, but this is not the truth – you merely committed one mistake: believing in the good nature of _the_ _people,_ believing that it was us alone creating divisions and oppression…Oh, how I wish you had been there to see how these, your _good_ people, when left to their devices, acted towards each other…'

'Those men and women that you stole from Tevinter were little less than lepers from the first hour,' Anaris uttered, taking great pleasure in slowly uttering each word. 'You took them with the clothes on their backs only, but you allowed the free Orlesians and Fereldens to bring whatever wealth they had. Did you, perhaps imagine that they would embrace Tevinter's unfortunates as brothers just because they have similarly shaped ears?'

'For some, usage was swiftly found in work as menial and hard and filthy as that the humans had already destined them to; those fortunate enough to be found useful gained stale bread for their toils, but these were few. The others, like rats, littered the city, reduced to beggars and thieves and whores, despised and mocked by all, but feared as well, if only for their numbers…Gleefully, without a second thought and despite pleas and wails, your fair city decided to rid itself of them, Tevinter liberati raising their hands along with Ferelden sewer rats…'

'Enough, Anaris,' Solas whimpered. 'Enough…'

'Not by a longshot, brother – this is my hour, and by the heavens, I shall have it' Anaris said, cutting short even the strangled plea. 'You need to open your eyes, and behold what lied before them for millennia – that when those who were once weak gain even a morsel of power, they'll turn and cruelly exercise it on those weaker then themselves. That sheep turned wolves preserve no memory of having been sheep, and that those who find themselves holding a whip swiftly forget a lash's bite. The darkness of men and Elvhen alike comes from within, not from without, and not even you, destroyer of worlds, enemy of all the Gods could change that…'

'You did not give them any time…' Solas said, in a voice he barely recognised as his own.

'Indeed,' Anaris nodded, 'and for the best it was that I did not, for a grim future they were headed – alienages were already there, Solas, all but in name. Revolts would follow, soon, and they would not be skirmishes in which those who rise up are outnumbered ten to one, for those forced to the gutter made up a third of your shining city's inhabitants…Regardless of who won, your streets would have run red with blood, and those who might have escaped the massacre would have no choice but to lead the humans to your walls, to finish what _the people_ themselves had started. To finish _the people,_ once and for all.'

'If that had been your intent, Pride, I would congratulate you for how close you came to your goal,' the Old God ended. 'Again,' he snarled.

'Better that,' Solas bitterly replied, 'than the fate you and your humans have in store for them…'

'If left to your devices, you would choose death for all at every turn, would you not, brother?' Anaris asked, shaking his head – and it was not the words that added to the torment, but the kindly, disappointed tone in which they were uttered.

'You chase from one invented outcome to the other,' the Old God sighed, 'though sadly neither foresight nor hindsight are your gifts…and it is for this reason, above all, that I wish you alive. Tevinter's property returned, Arlathan will be free to become precisely what it wills, and from this little cage of yours, you'll watch it turn into the Elvhenan of old. Within your stinted lifetime, you will nonetheless know of the return of slavery within the city's walls, and not because I or the Augur will prompt it. The people will evolve that way themselves…'

He interrupted himself and chuckled.

'Do you know,' he asked, in cold amusement, 'that those of the Dalish who deigned to take Tevinter slaves into their…service, demanded that they bear a vallaslin?'

It was too much, and Solas slipped to the floor, groaning as if he had been physically struck, and still, there was no mercy.

''Twas not the Gods, or fate itself that you could not defeat, my brother. It was the base nature of every living being, human or Elvhen, or woodland beast: the powerful prey on the weak. They always have, they always will…We have not punished Arlathan by giving it to Tevinter – your pain and rage today might have dulled your hearing.'

'The city is not to be an Imperial province. There will be no tribute demanded. _Ar lasa mala revasal,_ Solas. Now, _I_ have made them all free.'

'They'll thrive and multiply, as they never might have under you…And when they outgrow Arlathan, we shall give them other free kingdoms, in other places of power, while you will rot here, forgotten, until you'll even remember a whip's lash as lover's caress.'

Solas pressed his eyelids together, not caring that, indeed, a wave of acid tears was flowing down his cheeks, and that Anaris must have taken great delight in them.

'If what you say is true, brother,' he softly whispered, 'you are, and always were, the better man…It was…It wasn't in my power to kill you, and spare you the pain of the imprisonment, but you…'

'…can kill you, now?' Anaris spat, once more kneeling to savour the other's pain from up close. 'Why would I do that, Pride?' he queried, his voice gentle. 'When I get tired of all brothels, I might still come down here, from time to time, and watching you, like this, will give me more pleasure than all the women of continent might.'

'Do you wish me to beg, then?' Solas said, barely moving his lips.

'You're not going to beg, now.' The Old God smiled. 'It's early still, and your suffering has just begun... The day will come, though, and maybe, after all fight is truly and forever gone from you, I might show mercy. I might not,' he breezily added, looking over his shoulder.

'I _am_ begging, Anaris,' Solas said, raising his glance to that of the friend he'd once betrayed. 'End it. You have truly taken everything – you've won, the war is ended, and there's a true grave to dance upon.'

Anaris straightened, and faced forward once more. 'Everything, Pride?' he asked, with an unreadable smile.

He vanished, leaving his sister, the Augur, to answer in his stead.

 _Not everything,_ she said, in his thoughts; the door to his cell creaked slowly ajar.

'Veldrin,' Solas tonelessly said.

'My heart,' she answered, closing the heavy door behind her.

* * *

She slinked along the wall in silence, then sat, not caring that the floor was wet and dirty; she was so dazed, so broken, that she did not even take note of the fact that she sat in such a way that the Tevinter crest upon her sleeve was the most immediately visible thing from where Solas sat.

 _It did not matter, in the end. He'd find the Pavus crest equally painful to behold, and the light of the single torch was so dim that he would not have noticed the outlines of the halla horns…or, even if he did, he'd had no love of the Dalish…_

Neither of them moved, not even so they could meet each other's glance, and, as they sat in silence only interrupted by the painful drip…drip…drip…of water running down moss covered granite walls, they each sought hatred for the other in their hearts, and though they dug deep, none was found. Their pained togetherness was, Veldrin thought, akin to that of two parents standing on either side of their child's pyre; she'd witnessed such a thing once, when she was a girl…but she remembered it vividly, as if she had somehow turned time and witnessed it anew…

Because, perhaps, she was a witness to it now: a man and a woman, standing on opposite sides of a pyre that they had both, in some ways, lit, the silence in between them only broken by the crackling of the wood, and the air only filled by the smell of the burnt flesh…each thinking the other guilty, while questioning their own part in building the pyre and bringing fire to it.

And there was one more difference, Veldrin thought.

The boy in her recollection had been dead, by the well-meaning mistakes of both his parents. What rendered this all heartbreakingly different was that the nation that they had both set alight was still alive, and would scream, writhe and beg, once the flame licked its flesh.

And she'd brought it about as much as he had.

'I've not come to apologise, Solas.' Veldrin said, at long length.

'I know you haven't,' he painstakingly responded.

'I've come to mourn with you. Once long ago, I promised that you will never have to grieve alone.'

He nodded.

'We should then,' Solas reasoned, 'mourn in silence.'

 _And then, we must endure,_ Vel might have said, but he'd asked for silence and she honoured it.

Not for nearly enough time, though, not for as much time as she felt was needed, though probably a century might not have sufficed - a rumble of rushed, panicked voices filled the dungeon's corridors, as if some great mass of people had come hurtling down the stairs.

'Oh, Gods, what is it now?' Vel breathed, standing briskly. 'What on this hell of Earth…'

'Finally…Magistra Pavus, oh, Lady Patience, you are being summoned!' the Tevinter soldier who slammed the door of Solas' dungeon to the wall blurted, in equal panic and relief.

'What do you want from me?' she'd spun and hissed. 'What…'

'A scandal!' the man cried. 'A scandal! A scandal in the Archon's chambers!'

'I trust his grace Radonis to handle such things without my aid,' Vel had snarled. 'I am…'

 _In mourning. Leave me be…_

'An emissary from Starkheaven…'the man followed, barely managing the words, for he was truly out of breath.

She stood, and turned her back to Solas – the elvhen man took but a second to behold her, and note the swift transformation of the frail, heart-broken woman that had, but a heartbeat ago honestly grieved by his side into a woman he barely recognised: her chin raised, her shoulders straight, her eyes…

'I care more for all the rats nesting in this dungeon than for the emissary of Starkheaven,' she said, and her voice too was unknown to him.

'If only, Lady Patience,' the guard all but wailed. 'The Lord Watcher calls you! Starkheaven threatens war; Ferelden threatens war…'

'What?' Veldrin breathed, then briskly turned around, as Solas chuckled, then laughed as she had never heard him laugh...

'The peace with the Shem'len that you destroyed our people to save, ma vhenan,' Solas said, his blue eyes burning in the darkness. 'Your peace, the peace you bartered, with blood and tears, and lands and forests…Am I mistaken, or did it last just under an hour?'

'Just above two,' Veldrin snarled, gritting her teeth.

She swiftly turned away once more, silent and dark in her Tevinter robes; she left the baffled guard to close and bar the door behind her, though knowing it was useless. In this, she had agreed with Daren'thal, before even descended to see Solas – even with cage unlocked and dungeon door wide open, he had nowhere to run to.

Neither did she.

* * *

'What fucking madness is this? Starkheaven threatens war? What the…' she hissed, on broken breath, not immediately noticing that it was Altus Hadrian struggling to keep pace with her, despite the fact that he was genuinely one foot taller than she was.

'You have to see it to believe it,' the man replied, in an equally hushed tone. 'I haven't been in there, but it sounds like pandemonium from the antechamber…'

It was only then she noted the discrete markings on his robes were those of House Cassius – despite it all, she stopped and spun on him with a fury of a thousand unleashed harpies.

'Of many things I thought you guilty of, Lexi, this…'

With seemingly suicidal decisiveness, the man roughly grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her forth, leaning in close enough to whisper in her ear.

'No time to explain this, now, Vel.' He said.

'Short words will do, scum,' the woman said, lips curled in disgust.

'Alright, short words it is,' Lexi replied, still pulling on her arm as if he'd meant to dislodge it from her shoulder. 'You sent me to Maevaris; she read your note, then told me that since she cannot tell me to eat shit and die, I should at least eat shit, so she wrapped me out nicely and passed me…'

'To bloody Cassius? Who was foolish enough to take you?'

'Who had no choice but to, once Mae promised to publicly accuse him of kidnapping and torture…'

'And what about your sacred marital bed, the fortunes of your family, eh?' the woman spat. 'No longer fearing for them?'

'No, Vel, I don't,' Lexi snarled in response. 'Six pounds, eight ounces of a screaming baby boy – congratulate me at your leisure – assured I don't have to. So here I am, still on your side, and eating shit, for this was Maevaris' pleasure. If you will give me time, I'll explain fully later, for now…Please take my word, and this,' he said, swiftly taking a dagger from his sleeve, and pressing it into her palm.

She felt the radiation of the focus gem immediately, and knew this was no trinket – she'd been unarmed descending to see Solas, it had been the one condition that the Lady Mystery had imposed for her belated generosity…

'Is it that bad, in there?' she asked, pausing a minute before the Archon's door.

'I've heard nothing but indistinct shouting, Amata,' Lexi said, shaking his head, his blue eyes full of concern, 'but I am unsure how bad it's going to get. Everyone's armed, including Dorian and the Divine. You should be too.'

He swallowed dry, before letting go of her arm.

'Good luck, my friends,' Lexi whispered, lowering his glance.

'Oh fuck,' Veldrin whispered, parting the doors.

* * *

Yes, we know we are slow and complicated :)

We do love comments and critique, though, so leave us some :)

Up Next - well...we have a fake Andraste, some religious fanatics, some career politicians and a couple of dragons. I expect nothing but love and light :)

Cheers, Abstract & Ivi


	53. The Drums of War

_Those who oppose thee_

 _Shall know the wrath of heaven._

 _Field and forest shall burn,_

 _The seas shall rise and devour them,_

 _The wind shall tear their nations_

 _From the face of the earth,_

 _Lightning shall rain down from the sky,_

 _They shall cry out to their false gods,_

 _And find Silence._

 _ **Andraste 7:19**_

* * *

'You will stand for the Lady Patience,' the Augur of Mystery said, calmly and clearly.

Dorian did not need to, for he was already standing, as were Radonis and Cassandra; Briala did, offering a very polite Orlesian curtsy, and not lifting her eyes until Veldrin nodded in her direction, and signalling that it was alright to sit back down. Josephine Montilyet, pale as wax, and shaking as if fever was upon her, tried to stand but could not truly manage – Dorian's hand upon her forearm assured her that the effort was enough, and she gratefully sunk back in her seat.

The Lord Watcher gave Veldrin a brief, acknowledging nod, standing straight from the bookcase he was casually leaning on while he did it. There was a darkness in his eyes, something Veldrin did not like. Nor, she thought, did she like Abelas' dead eyes – still for the first time, he sought and met her glance, and greeted her by a slow, downwards moment of his golden pupils alone.

The other three men present did not even try to stand; two of these, Veldrin did not know, but one wore Nevarran regalia so resplendent that it might have given sight to the blind-born, and the other, a suit of armour so heavy and elaborate that Veldrin might have excused him from standing, just to make sure he did not burst a head vein with the effort of lifting such weight.

The third of these was, of course, Arl Teagan, beaming with the satisfaction of one who knew Ferelden had just conquered unassailable Minrathous, and he would be the one to announce it…

'I said, you will stand for the Lady Patience,' Lady Mystery repeated, and this time, there was nothing sweet or melodious in her voice – as if their very clothes had come to entrap them, all three offenders mechanically stood, and, as if the very same clothes had carried well sewn puppeteer's strings, all bowed, in unison, and so bowed they remained.

'Is it my sister's pleasure that we hurt the foolish man who still, despite all that he's been granted, regards her as an enemy?' Mystery casually asked. Arl Teagan ground his teeth so much that strands of saliva escaped his lips.

'No, Lady Mystery,' Veldrin tiredly said. 'I have no desire of feign respect from those who don't respect me. Free them of your will.'

The Augur shrugged her shoulders, and all three men straightened; she did not get a moment of pause. Not even for a half breath.

'This truth I've come to witness before all! Andraste is reborn!' the man in heavy armour cried, lifting his arms to the ceiling and causing his armour to creak deafeningly. 'The Maker's Bride comes to strike what is unholy from the world of the Maker!'

Veldrin coughed, swallowing bile so that she would not spill it from her mouth. She waved her hands, bidding all to wait; she was aware of Cassandra's glance upon her.

'Ah,' Veldrin said, discretely wiping her lips. 'I see,' she said.

'Have a seat, Lady Patience,' Radonis said, glumly, gesturing towards his own chair – it was the only unoccupied one. 'You look like you need one…I have already asked the gentlemen from Ferelden and Starkheaven where Andraste is,' he followed, gently passing his hand over Veldrin's shoulders as she accepted his offer. 'They cannot reveal this to us, not while we still worship the false gods.'

'You among them, self-anointed Herald of Andraste.' Arl Teagan said, 'Lady Patience, or whatever name you go by these days…Ferelden was never fooled by you!'

'I see that I have missed much,' Veldrin said, gratefully accepting a cup of too sweet wine from her husband; Dorian put his hand on her wrist and held it tightly enough for the hold to be painful. 'You have missed much too, Arl Teagan,' she said, kissing the glass but putting it back down. 'You've forgotten to call me _she-wolf_.'

She exchanged a glance with Radonis.

'Repeat, for Magistra Pavus' benefit, what the consequences of Tevinter refusing to acknowledge the newly reborn Andraste, while acknowledging Arlathan, might be.' The Archon said.

'War. From Ferelden to Orlais, from the Free Marches to Antiva – of all the human nations over the dregs of the elves. War, not in the way,' Arl Teagan cackled, 'that this one envisioned it!'

He whipped his arm towards Radonis.

'Because this one,' he followed, speaking to all and none, 'envisioned an insidious war, a war without bloodshed – a war where we have to buy from them, after their devilish elven allies impoverished us, sickened us, took away our crops, our industry, our trade…hoped to subdue our faith and traditions, our safeguards against the wildfires of magic! No, not your insidious war. We'll fight the true war, sweeping the world with blood and fire, war, the war to end all wars!'

'While I assured the gentleman from Ferelden that none of us will want _that.'_ Radonis said, dryly.

'Orlais, too, assured that it does not acknowledge this…display, most _extravagant_ ,' Briala said, very politely, 'and furthermore, we shall be grateful to the honourable Ferelden representative not to speak on the behalf of Her Radiance until such fanciful and dangerous declarations have passed through official channels…'

'Pfeh,' the heavily armoured man from Starkheaven muttered, under his breath. 'We know all about your _channels,_ elf, official and un-official, and all unholy in the Maker's sight…'

'Besides,' the Nevarran man followed, uneasily loosening the too tight, ruffled collar of his shirt, 'you, yourself have no official capacity. You should not even be present.'

'Consider Ambassador Briala officially acknowledged at this point,' Radonis said, with a smile that could normally only spell doom. 'I am sure accreditation letters shall be exchanged…'

'No later than an hour from now, your grace,' Briala nodded, sitting up even straighter in her chair. 'And, while I am ill-placed to speak for Her Radiance, Celene Valmont the First, I doubt that she and her Empire will participate in any…how you say? War to end all wars…'

Empowered by Briala's nerves, which seemed to be wound of steel as fine and tight as the one that made up the Starkheaven representative's armour, Josephine Montyliet also found her voice.

'I,' she began, then shyly adjusted her voice with a light cough, 'also doubt that the Kingdom of Antiva and the, ah, principality of Rivain are interested in any war to end all wars. My mandate,' she spoke, in a graceful tone, 'perhaps is, in a way, greater than that of Marquise Briala, for I have been empowered, by Her Majesty, the Queen of Antiva and priceless protector to Rivain…'

'Home to whores, pirates and louts,' Arl Teagan scoffed.

'But also men whose manners are so well honed, that they speak not over women,' Josephine said – this time, she'd found not only her words and her smile, but also the steel within herself. 'As I was saying,' she coldly reiterated, 'I am empowered to speak for Her Majesty, and Antiva shall definitely not participate in whimsy of such scale. Not only does Antiva have no meaningful standing land army, but recent and unfortunate events have rendered the Felicissima Armada not quite as formidable as we might like it. That aside, we, as a nation of honourable traders, object to bloodshed. Ambassador Briala may need to wait for Her Radiance's response to this distraction, but I do not. Antiva and Rivain regard such actions and threats as wasteful, and those who proffer them quite...exalted.'

'You may not count on us,' she ended, 'though we shall welcome and rejoice the Maiden's rebirth, should it be proven true.'

The armoured man from Starkheaven emitted an offended huff that might have rivalled a bull's. 'By whom, acknowledged? By the aiders and abetters of Tevinter's heresy?'

'Well,' Razikale dreamily said, deeply breathing of her pipe, 'let's test that heresy by having you return to your inglorious gnats of people, your mind so thoroughly wiped that you shall stand in open prayer to _me,_ before your so-called prophet…'

'Don't, Lady Mystery,' Veldrin whispered.

''Tis but a thought,' Razikale smiled. 'Patience, little sister, is your domain. To claim it for myself would be to encroach.'

'It will just grant more credence to…whatever this is.' Veldrin sighed. 'Cassie…I mean, your worship,' she hastily corrected; she looked upon her friend with hope, but also sympathy.

'I will understand if you wish to…'

'I do,' Cassandra said, for the first time standing away from the window, and taking off the tall hat that caused beads of sweat to gather on her forehead. 'There is none,' she uncertainly spoke, smoothing her short, rebellious and silver streaked hair with her still calloused hand, 'that would welcome the return of the Maker's Bride more than I.'

'This is acknowledged,' Razikale said, smiling wide. 'Misguided words of hollow songs can still a good tune carry.'

Van Markham loosened his collar further.

'Still,' Cassandra followed, striding by the desk and dropping her new and much taller hat by the silver display case in which Radonis now stored the useless Blade of Mercy, 'it does sound strange to me that upon her revival, the Maker's Bride would call for such a conflict…'

'Ah,' the Starkheaven man said, in despise, 'You have no word here…By a false prophet appointed, by a heretic held up – a true Divine is not a doll strung by so many strings…'

'The truly faithful,' Arl Teagan replied, 'see true.'

Unphased, Cassandra loosened the first three buttons of her robes' collar, revealing that she wore chainmail underneath, then kitted her fingers together, only to crack them, loudly, and with great pleasure.

'I was not done speaking, Sir,' she said, in a tone that could almost have passed for courteous.

'The Maiden of the Alamarr brought truth by sword, and shield and spear!' Arl Teagan breathed.

'By sword and shield and spear, yes,' Cassandra replied, stretching her fingers out and causing them to menacingly crack once more. 'But to whom did she bring this war, knower of the Chant? To the unwary peasant? To the travelling merchant? To the elves?'

'To the gates of Minrathous,' the man from Starkheaven croaked.

'Of course,' Cassandra spat. 'To the gates of unassailable Minrathous…But not to the people of her Champion.'

'The Canticle of Shartan is heresy,' Arl Teagan said, with wicked satisfaction.

'Many among us do not regard it as such,' the Divine replied. 'Those who profess such scholarly knowledge of the Chant might know that it is one of the few texts come to us from primary sources…'

'Besides,' Radonis smirked, 'you seem a little fickle in choosing your Holy Writ. The Sunburst throne has held, for ages, that the Canticle of Hessarian is heresy, too, yet here lies the Blade of Mercy, physically tangible and within your reach.'

'Enough of this,' the Starkheaven knight growled, darting to his feet. 'We have come to state, not argue. The Maiden of the Alamarr returns; the Chantry will bow to her, even if the Divine does not.'

'The Chantry may bow to whomever it wishes to bow,' Lusacan said, dryly; he stood away from the bookcase, and took a single step forth – it was enough for all displays of fierce faith and courage to vanish. Suddenly, and despite the fact that in his human form, the dragon God was a good foot shorter than the knight, and probably carried a fifth of his weight, the Starkheaven man froze, and began shivering from all his joints. 'The priestess of the misguided song may bow to whomever she wishes, too,' he said, meeting Cassandra's glance, and offering a mere, indifferent shrug to her obvious surprise. 'So warlike and imposing, this, your Maker…' he dreamily added, taking another step forth, and causing the knight to collapse back in his chair, as if his knees had melted.

Razikale too circled, gracefully placing her little hand on Arl Teagan's shoulder as she so did. '…and yet so weak your faith in him,' she whispered. 'So ascertained you are of his power that you wet your britches when we merely gaze at you…Will the Maiden of the Alamarr not spring forth to protect you? Why fear _us_ so, when behind her shield you stand? Unless her shield is made of glass, her spear a twig, and her sword is a toy?' she sweetly chimed.

Radonis tiredly smiled and nodded, his hand still resting on Veldrin's shoulder.

'The honourable representatives of the Free Marches, Nevarra and Ferelden,' he said, with a little bow of his head, 'have requested an audience, and this has been granted them. They may, indeed, return to their homelands proud to have… _witnessed_ ,' he spoke, grinning thinly, 'to the rebirth of the Maiden of Alamarr, the Maker's Bride, before all of the…what word would they employ, your worship?' he asked, looking to the Divine.

'Heretics,' Cassandra said, dryly. 'As still head of the Holy Chantry, both North and South, I would soften this word to _merely unconvinced_.'

'Antiva regards this choice of words most wise,' Josephine nodded, and Radonis tilted his head in agreement.

'As does Tevinter.' He agreeably said. 'We hence assure the most honourable gentlemen of our good will, and our good hope that the Maker's Bride shall pour great blessings upon them, and the lands they hail from. We also assure them, however,' he added, his voice turning as cold as Lusacan's breath, 'that all those who bring war to unassailable Minrathous shall start no war to end all wars.'

'They'll start a war that merely ends them,' the heir to Darinius concluded. 'The Imperium is not threatened by words; muster an army, and we shall meet it, and crush it. Declare open war, and we shall crush your armies before you do have time to set up camp.'

'Are we to understand that you are deaf?' Arl Teagan said, in a voice that he might have hoped impressive, yet was merely an echo of the majesty of Radonis' own tone.

'No, of course not,' the Archon said. 'We have acquiesced part of your demands; we have no wish to deny the existence of the Maker's Bride. However, the latter part of your polite demands cannot and shall not be granted.'

It was the first, and only thing that Abelas reacted to, and not in a way that Veldrin might have expected – the Sentinel shifted his glance to Radonis, undeniable hope in the depths of his eyes.

'The Magisterium has voted on terms with Arlathan,' the man said, plainly. 'The Tilani-Pavus motion has been passed by a majority of Senate, and it is not only not in our power, but also not in our will to renege on our word, once given. In sight of all, and its Eternal Gods, Tevinter recognises Arlathan as sovereign.'

'Then,' Teagan said, finding his arrogant, true voice, 'we shall have to test whether Arlathan too can claim that it is unassailable. Do you not fear this, elf?' he asked of Abelas and Veldrin both, pointedly ignoring Briala.

The two exchanged a glance, perhaps, for the first time, feeling as if they truly stood on the same side.

'The Elvhen nation has spent too many centuries in fear of you,' Veldrin said, between gritted teeth.

'Not only with the life-span of children, but with the wisdom of children too,' Abelas followed.

The Starkheaven knight gritted his teeth, and visibly fought himself to stand. 'Too well,' he said. 'None shall see mercy in the war to end all wars.'

'Ah, hah,' Razikale chuckled. 'Such mighty words astound us, truly…'

'Just, for your enlightenment, remember that such mighty words cut both ways,' Lusacan said. 'Have you spoken your full piece now?' he muttered. 'The Lady Patience's peaceful resilience can only shield you so far.'

'We believe we have spoken all that needed to be said, yes,' Teagan answered; Radonis shrugged.

'Then, all who plan war on Tevinter may leave this chamber and this city, now,' the Archon said.

'By either the door or the window, on a horse or in a hearse,' Razikale completed. 'You have a count of five to choose.'

There was an interesting shuffle, then – Starkheaven's knight and Teagan spun on their heels and chose the door, needing not a count of three to make their choice. The Nevarran ambassador stood, for a heartbeat, then resolutely sat back down, digging his nails into the armrests of the chair he was occupying, lowering his head and closing his eyes to avoid meeting the glances of his two erstwhile companions and men of the shared faith.

Equally surprising was the fact that Briala stood and curtsied, making to leave; she did not head straight for the door though, but rather, chose an interesting path to it, one that carried her behind the Archon's desk.

'I cannot speak for Celene until I have informed her,' she whispered, for Veldrin and Radonis alone. 'This puts Orlais at war with Ferelden, a thing Her Radiance has spent her life to avoid. I am leaving the room, but not the city, if your grace shall allow…'

Radonis nodded curtly.

'Worse come to worse, you'll have a _pointed_ ear on them,' the Orlesian elf spoke, in equal haste. Her shoulders straight and her mask firmly in its place, she followed Teagan and the Starkheaven emissary out of the room.

No one else budged.

The Archon briefly closed his eyes, then opened a side door to let his cats in. He also magically summoned wine and cups; with all the world shifting about her, Veldrin could only be assured of two things: Dorian's hand covering hers, and that this particular wine would not be horribly sweet.

* * *

'Is this what you meant when you said time and fate had lost his patience with Abelas?' Veldrin asked, once the seat reshuffling had been done, and the two cats had found their sweet spots – one on Cassandra's lap, the other on Radonis' shoulders.

All were now seated, and all, even Abelas had a cup in hand.

'Yes,' Razikale said.

'Varric assures me _she_ is not Andraste,' Josephine said, drinking half her cup in a single gulp.

'Varric, Varric, Varric!' Cassandra all but shouted. 'One day, I'll get that dwarf…Why did he not warn us? And why are _you_ still here?' she asked, turning her angry gaze to Ambassador Van Markham.

The man shifted uneasily in his chair; now that his collar was completely loose, he had no other way of marking his doubts known.

'Oh, Divine Victoria, Cassandra Philomena Nicola Fiorentina…' he began.

'Get _on_ with it!' the Divine growled.

'Lady Penthaghast,' the man yielded, 'I…Nevarra does not wish war on Tevinter. I thought the Andraste revival a jest at worst, a flag of rallied hopes at best, not one of…utter madness!' he breathed. 'I thought the madman from Starkheaven picked a peasant girl with the likeness of a painting! I never thought they would drag me in here to declare war on the Imperium and its…its dragons, I mean, Eternal Gods! But…But you can see it, can you not, Cassandra Philomena…'

'Anyone with eyes could,' Josephine said, finishing her cup. It was magically refilled. 'Nevarra borders on Tevinter, the Free Marches and Ferelden. Start war along two borders, the third will get greedy, too.'

'Yes,' the man conceded, finishing his cup in turn.

'By staying, you have proven wisdom to our eyes, Alexander Vladimir Nicolai Florian Daniel Mihail Van Markham.' Razikale said, taking a deep drag of her pipe. 'I think the Heir of Darinius would show wisdom by inviting in the said Child of Stone, the one of House Tethras…'

'So I can strangle him,' Cassandra muttered.

'That would be unwise,' Lusacan replied. 'The Child of the Stone is immune to magic, so his words to you, priestess, might be worth their weight in gold. You would not believe us if we spoke them.'

'Thus…' Josephine dared, 'he is right? She is not…'

'Forgive me, Lord Watcher,' Dorian interrupted, 'but if you knew of this, why did you not…'

Razikale shrugged, answering in her brother's stead. 'No outcomes might have been positively altered by sharing this knowledge. At least now, our little sister and her inexplicable protegee have their city, and the Imperium will soon be in shape to, indeed, crush - from the moment we took flight, war was on the horizon.'

'We did not rush it,' Lusacan followed, 'and we hope all here present shall recall that, mortal memory being as short as it is…'

He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, pointlessly so, for it immediately escaped and fell across his forehead once more.

''Tis not as dire as it seems. Or at least, it is not dire in the way you imagine it.' Razikale calmly said. Even the smoke of her pipe was slightly soothing to all, including the Archon's pets, for the two cats now seemed to have taken to some pleasurable insanity and were rolling on the floor, purring with undisguised happiness.

'Forgive me, Lady Mystery,' the Archon said, 'but it does look very dire from where I am standing.'

'Orlais will not fight you,' Razikale said. 'As we are speaking, Briala of no House, Marquise of her own making, is writing a passionate plea for Orlais not to join the fray – her heart, the Radiant Empress will not deny this plea. Orlais will dither, and Celene Valmont will do what she does best: play for time.'

'Do you actually _know_ this?' the stunned Nevarran ambassador asked.

'She does,' Cassandra curtly replied, then frowned, as the man's face turned into the very representation of grief.

'So, in the end,' he sorrowfully said, 'Arl Teagan was right; the faith you serve is not the Chantry…'

'My faith,' the Divine said, after kissing her cup of wine, 'has seen many challenges in recent months. Yet, even without Varric's testimony, I cannot see the Maker's Bride wishing such destruction. It's this, and not the fact that I have taken to some new Gods that makes me doubt this is truly Andraste. I shall need to ascertain it, though.' She said, looking to Veldrin.

'Good Gods, I do too,' Vel answered, with no hesitation. 'Not because…' she added, casting an apologetic glance to Lusacan – the dragon God merely shrugged.

'You will not find anything to soothe your heart, little sister,' Lusacan said; he refilled his cup, then, to Van Markham's obvious surprise, bent over the table to refill Dorian's.

'Is this what we feared was coming from the outset?' the Magister asked.

Lusacan contented himself on a nod.

'I…I apologise,' Josephine hesitantly said, 'but…what did you fear, Dorian?'

'The return of the Evanuris,' Veldrin replied, in her husband's stead.

Josephine shuddered, and pleadingly looked about herself. 'It cannot be,' she whispered, 'that there was no Maker…It cannot be…Eternal Gods of Tevinter, I again ask for your pardon, yet…'

'No need to do so,' Razikale shrugged, taking another deep breath of her pipe. 'Politeness cannot hide you from us, Josephine Montilyet. You do not think us Gods, and we have neither the desire nor the compunction to convince you that we are – false Gods have it. True Gods do not. False Gods need miracles and prophets. True Gods do not.'

Lusacan shrugged as well.

'There might be a Maker,' he said, 'but if there is one, he is not the one your prophet and her song describe. We,' he followed, locking eyes with his sister, 'do not deny his existence, for we too were created, as were the spirits of the beyond, the beasts of the woods, the round-eared folk, the horned folk, and _the people_ alike. None of our races materialised from dew and sand.'

'Neither did we,' Razikale completed, sincerely. 'We too were born of man and woman, before we rose.'

'What do you doubt then?' Van Markham asked – he, too, was pale as wax.

'Andraste, in both her first and her second coming,' Lusacan dryly said. 'This will be an insult to your ears, Cassandra Philomena…'

'Lord Watcher, can we _please_ not start…' the Divine said, rolling her eyes and sighing deeply.

'Divine Victoria, then,' Lusacan conceded, with a brief nod. 'The first Andraste, as your misguided song described her, could not have existed. She did exist, nonetheless; there are records of her life and there are records of her miracles…'

'She was a human mage, unware of her power, possessed by one of the Undying,' Dorian said, dryly; all frowned.

'That is what Tevinter has always held; the latter part is unheard of, though…' the Nevarran ambassador chocked out.

'True,' Radonis answered, lifting his cup to his lips and looking into nothingness beyond its rim, before focussing on Dorian. 'Why do you say that, Magister Pavus?' he softly asked. 'The Undying are held as evil by all races, and Andraste, whomever she was, whatever she was, was a good woman.'

Razikale shook her head.

'Not all of the Undying are evil,' she replied. 'The reasons why such legends are held by one and all is that the most peaceful among them rarely meddle with humans. 'Tis thus that only misdeeds are recalled…Yet you, Dawnbringer,' the dragon Goddess followed, tilting her head to the side at an odd angle, as a lizard might have, 'bring forth a curious supposition.'

'It's a logical assumption,' Dorian said, biting his lower lip in thought. 'Andraste's miracles were beyond mortal powers, and even if she had been a trained a mage, as the Northern Chantry has always held, this was never proven in recorded history…'

'It is not unlikely, though,' Veldrin picked up, in the same thoughtful tone. 'The closest kin of the Alamarr still alive today are the Avvar, and they freely consort with spirits.'

Cassandra doubtfully shook her head. 'If Andraste had been an augur, the Chant would have made note of it.'

'Which is why I think she was unaware of her gifts,' Dorian responded. 'Thus, I think both Chantries were wrong – she was not a trained mage, as the North has always held, but she was no simple warrior either...What?' he irritably asked, when Cassandra scowled horribly in his direction. 'I said I did not believe in the Chant, not that I haven't _read_ it,' he muttered.

'Is it possible for this to be true again now?' Veldrin asked of her husband – he shrugged slightly. 'It would be advantageous to us all, since the Lady Mystery…'

Razikale slowly shook her head. 'I can see some logic in what the Dawnbringer asserts. One of the peaceful or neutral Undying may well have descended to bring some order to a Godless world once, but the Undying were never enemies to us, nor are their powers a slither of our own. The only one who might be willing to cause chaos on such a scale, the one you know so well, Lady Patience, knows this better than all; he knows we would make brief work of his display.'

'Further,' Lusacan picked up, 'we may discount the Nevarran's ambassador's supposition – if this… _Andraste_ were a peasant girl in the likeness of a painting, she would be visible to my gaze. She is hidden, though, as only those akin to us can be.'

'So, what you are basically telling us, Lord Watcher,' Radonis concluded, biting his lower lip, 'is that of all possibilities, only the very worst remains...why did you not warn us?' the Archon whispered.

The dragon God shook his head. 'Our sister has told you precisely why, Heir to Darinius. Our powers are boundless, but Tevinter's armies are still crippled; if _she_ had surfaced before our pact with Arlathan was struck, this war to end all wars would still have been won, but at great cost.'

'Hence why you were so _generous,_ ' Abelas bitterly whispered; Razikale measured him with half-lidded eyes and a cruel smirk in the corner of her lips.

'You did not think we allowed you existence out of love for _you_ , did you, Sorrow?' she mockingly asked. 'Such an ungrateful critter…' she sighed, taking a long drag of her pipe, and exhaling towards the ceiling. 'Does it so greatly matter why we showed you mercy? You exist, now, and you have allies – or do you think your ruin of a city could have withstood a human army rising from the Free Marches and Ferelden alike? We've always known where you dwell, and so does this false prophetess…'

'So you still think that she is one of the Evanuris?' Josephine bitterly inquired.

'She can be nothing else,' Lusacan shrugged. 'And sadly, I think I can well guess which one of them she is.'

'Andruil,' Abelas whispered; the Lord Watcher gave him a long, charged stare, but nodded, at length.

'Andruil,' he expressionlessly confirmed.

'How can you know, if you cannot see her?' Veldrin inquired, with a small frown.

Razikale thoughtfully chewed on the stem of her pipe. 'Sylaise was never a warmonger, and neither was June. Mythal is now truly dead, Ghilan'nain too weak and naïve for such a ruse. Elghar'nan and Dirthamen would have manifested differently, for the former, if returned, would not need humans to rain fire 'pon the realm, and the latter might have been…'

She dryly chuckled.

'…amenable, until the opportunity to backstab us arose.'

'And Andruil is the only shape-shifter of the lot,' Abelas spoke up, once more. 'It stands to reason.'

'How can you all know this, to such precise extent? The Elvhen pantheon predated…' the Nevarran asked, in great surprise; Cassandra sighed and lowered her glance.

'It is a story for a different time,' the Divine said; she cast an unreadable glance at Radonis. 'Your grace,' she began, 'I…All that's been said here makes sense. I still cannot, as the head of the Chantry…'

Radonis pressed his index and middle finger between his eyes, but nodded.

'Nor should you,' he tiredly said. 'Now that this news is out, you will be expected to meet the Maker's Bride, perhaps bow to her…We'll fight no fault with you if, in your heart, she reignites the Maker's fire.'

The man tried to smile.

'I know,' Radonis kindly followed, 'that you wish it were so; I assume the same is true for you, Ambassador Montilyet.'

'Indeed, your grace,' Josephine replied, with a small incline of her head.

The Archon stood and turned away from all, looking out the window.

'I guess it was too much to hope for…' he whispered. 'Lasting peace…'

To Vel's surprise, Cassandra stood in her turn, and placed a hand on the man's crooked shoulder. 'Not so, Clodius Radonis,' she softly said. 'If this woman _is_ the Maker's Bride, she will heed reason, and not unleash destruction upon all creation. If she is not…'

'…if she is not, and you declare she isn't, the Chantry will disregard you, as it will disregard us all,' Veldrin said, in barely repressed anger. 'It is not as if any of us will have a voice – think who we all are: Tevinter, elvhen, mages, one lonely dwarf…'

'Hm,' Josephine said, after a moment of tense silence. 'I can think of one whose voice might have some meaning.'

Dorian looked to her and frowned, then gazed into his cup of wine, while softly spinning it. 'Vivienne de Fer, you mean.' He expressionlessly said. 'My favourite person on the continent.'

'If it all is but a magical ruse,' Josephine nodded, 'the Grand Enchanter should see through it.'

'Not sure how much credibility that will lend us with the Southern Chantry, Josie,' Vel said. 'She's still a mage.'

'Not much credibility within the Chantry, true,' the Antivan said, an apologetic ring in her voice, 'but it will at least prevent the Southern Mages from joining the fray – or perhaps some of them,' she bitterly ended. 'In any event…'

'In any event,' Cassandra muttered, 'if this woman is not Andraste, we will be right back where we started a decade ago. An army of mages pitted against an army of Templars, with the common folk now squarely pitted against mages, and the Elvhen…Can we not…' she began, her hand slipping off Radonis' shoulder, 'simply…acknowledge this woman?'

Radonis half turned toward her and shrugged. 'As I have said, we have nothing against acknowledging her, yet if she is…Andruil,' he brought himself to say, 'that will mean nothing. Also, Cassandra,' he followed, with a kind smile, 'would you allow your faithful to believe in a false God?'

'If it saves their lives, yes,' Cassandra softly answered. 'If we avert all out war, the peace of my soul is a small price to pay.'

'A wise and honest woman you are, Cassandra Philomena,' Van Markham said, sounding impressed.

'No,' the Divine contradicted, in painful simplicity. 'Just a woman who has seen too much blood shed, and wishes to see no more of it.'

'Perhaps we are all wrong, and she is Andraste.'

All looked up in shock, for it had been Razikale to utter the words.

'Now I think you have smoked entirely too much,' her brother replied, with a horrible scowl.

'While I,' the dragon Goddess spoke, 'think that you, Lord Watcher have smoked entirely too little and forget your purpose within the greater meaning,' Razikale responded, smiling sadly. 'We must never forget, my brother, that there is no number of innocents to be slaughtered that would justify merely destroying a Temple. If one we fell, we would not be better than Pride and his ilk...'

Abelas winced, but lowered his eyes and uttered no words.

'If, however, they bring war to unassailable Minrathous,' Razikale said, breathing out smoke though her nose and then inhaling it back though her barely parted lips, 'we will retaliate. If they bring war to Arlathan, we will show them that Arlathan, too, is unassailable. So the Gods speak. So it shall be. I am out of herbs – rush, mortals,and more herbs fetch me.' She concluded.

* * *

You might have thought we'd disappeared, but we have not. We are also pleased to inform that this chapter is now the end of Arc 2, and the beginning of Arc 3, and Arc 3 is fully written, so y'all shall be getting a steady stream of posting for the next 3-4 months. Arc 4 and final is already in the works.

Thank you all for reading and commenting,

Cheers,

Abstract & IvI


	54. The Lion in Winter

_The Archon stood upon the dais and declared:_

 _"Today, I end this war!" And by will alone_

 _Drew fire from air and set the pyre aflame._

 _ **Canticle of Apotheosis 2: 24-27**_

* * *

'Hm,' Celene Valmont said, her eyes drifting over the parchments before her for what seemed like the hundredth time. 'Most unpleasant, but quite intriguing.'

'Indeed, Your Radiance,' Vivienne de Fer expressionlessly agreed; the Empress sighed, and stood.

Her corset, too tightly strung by a chambermaid who was not Briala, was pinching at her hips.

 _Or maybe I am old and growing fat,_ Celene unwillingly thought.

'Perhaps the Council of Heralds…' the mage politely suggested, only to have her words dismissed by a brief and tired wave of Her Radiance's bejewelled hand.

'The Council of Heralds wants the head of every mage in Orlais, yourself included,' Celene responded, dryly. 'They will be informed of our decision once it has been made, and you will have aided us in making it…How little the good heart of Veldrin Lavellan serves us now,' she dreamily said; her back was turned so she did not notice Vivienne's less than polite smirk. 'The Council is but a field of tall grass bowing to the wind, _chere Madame_ ; those who still hold Gaspard dear have bowed to me for lack of choice, but they still mutter when they think no one is listening. Those who supported me would have done the same if the outcome of that dreadful night at the Winter Palace had been different.'

'No,' Celene followed, 'We trust them not on this matter…Not because we fear their disloyalty – that is a constant every monarch must accept – but because they do not understand the cause of our plight. Not in the same way we both do, _Madame_.'

Vivienne nodded. 'Whatever is in my power to do to serve Your Radiance shall be accomplished,' she said, 'and I full-heartedly agree that _Magistra Pavus_ did Your Radiance no favours. Had Gaspard's head been on a pike…'

Celene chuckled briefly and mirthlessly.

'Our cousin has three sons, Madame de Fer,' she said – though her face was covered by her mask, it was clear that she was smiling, sadly. 'We have no heir. One of the three will be restored to land and title, and follow us to the throne; perhaps their disposition towards our reforms and our rule will be more benign, given that we had their father's life in our hands, and chose to spare it. Perhaps not, yet…'

'Your Radiance has many more years ahead,' the mage said, kindly.

'And, alas, they shan't be peaceful, as we had hoped,' Celene replied.

She sat back down, deciding that the annoyance of the pinching corset was worth it, if it meant she could look the other woman in the eyes. The Empress was not playing _le grand jeu_ now, and she briefly struggled to remember whether she had renounced it with anyone else but Briala. Still, this was no time for veiled meanings…

'What do you make of this rebirth of Andraste?' she queried; the mage before her crossed her elegant hands in her lap and considered her words before speaking.

'I wish dearly that it was true, Your Radiance,' Vivienne said, simply. 'However,' she followed, 'there are indeed _intriguing_ things in the communication from Minrathous. I am not an open enemy to House Pavus, but neither of the two consider me a friend.'

'Have you been wronged by them?' Celene asked.

'Not directly,' the mage earnestly replied. 'Our differences were philosophical in nature, as one might expect, and while I consider our present predicament direct proof of the fact that I was correct and they were not, I cannot assert Magistra Pavus has ever been anything but fair and even handed in her dealings with me. She even went as far as to assist me in a deeply personal matter, and the effort posed on my behalf was not insignificant.'

'So you have no reason to assume that either Lord or Lady Pavus might wish to harm you,' the Empress said.

Vivienne shook her head. 'No; our differences of opinion went no further than heated but polite arguments…well, less polite with _Magister_ Pavus, I should say.' She drew a deep breath before continuing. 'This is the part of the communications that I find awkward. If either the House Pavus or the monsters they have awoken had harmful intent, they would not offer to come _here.'_

'From what Briala writes, Tevinter's Old Gods are possessed of inhuman powers,' Celene once more prompted.

'Divine Victoria would not willingly allow harm to come to me; she would defend me against all odds. ' the mage refuted. 'And, if Your Radiance might allow me to advise her, it would perhaps be good that the monsters should be compelled to maintain their human form, whilst in the Empire.'

Celene distractedly nodded; the mere notion of dragon wings spread over Val Royaux made her sick to her stomach. She tapped her index's fingernail on the table, in thought.

'This bodes ill,' she said, at long length, 'for if you think they do not intend to do you harm, yet still wish you to be present at their encounter with the Maker's Bride, it means that they have utter confidence she is not…Andraste,' Celene forced herself to finish.

'Hm,' Vivienne said, dryly, and perhaps with far less deference than the situation and her interlocutor might have mandated. 'It could also mean that it is not me they seek to harm; let us not forget that the Maker's Bride was undone by human treachery once. Perhaps it is their plan to similarly undo her now. Marquise Briala equally writes that one of the monsters controls minds – Divine Victoria could well be under her influence, and for all my abilities, I am unsure that I shall be immune. My testimony, which, without false modesty, will carry weight, might be tainted…And even though _I_ might be thoroughly convinced, that leaves Your Radiance and the Orlesian Empire…'

 _At war with either Ferelden and the Free Marches, or the Imperium; I rose to my throne and secured it by a war designed to prevent exactly that. How fitting it is…_

Her Radiance, Empress Celene Valmont the First did not know whether to laugh or cry. Under her solid mask, she thought it would not have much mattered.

'It is our wish,' she struggled to say, 'to recognise Arlathan. It is our wish that Elves become citizens with full rights to the protection of Orlesian law. Not because…'

'Your Radiance does not need to explain,' Vivienne neutrally said.

'Yet my radiance shall have to do so, sooner or later, Madame de Fer,' Celene snapped. 'And we are both wise and old enough women to know truths unpalatable will be spoken out loud. Rumours will become reality, reality will become the hail of pebbles gracing my carriage every time I venture out of the Winter Palace. I will be the Empress who sold her people's blood for an Elvhen whore.'

Fully disregarding the etiquette that a subject may never touch her sovereign, Vivienne de Fer briefly reached across and brushed her fingers against the Empress' arm.

'Why should we not think on this?' the mage asked, quickly withdrawing her hand. 'A week, perhaps two? These letters do not give us a time limit within which we should respond, nor an indication of how, nor, dare I say, what Your Radiance's conditions this visit by.'

Celene nodded. 'I shall not order you to go anywhere you do not wish to be, chere madame.'

'I wish to see the Maker's Bride, Your Radiance,' Vivienne responded, calmly. 'It would be wise if the monster who controls minds is not present were one of your terms. My testimony might carry more weight, then.'

'To my ears alone,' Celene said, swallowing saliva.

'To the only ears that matter, Your Radiance,' Vivienne de Fer said, standing, then bowing. 'May I make preparations for the journey?'

'Of course,' the Empress replied. 'But, one more thing, Madame de Fer,' she added, while the mage had turned to leave.

'Your Radiance?'

'What if she is truly not Andraste?' Celene asked.

'Then,' Vivienne reasoned, 'Your Radiance shall be giving the Chevaliers the same boon your royal cousin might have; we shall be at war with Ferelden.'

The Empress nodded, and stood, giving the other woman permission to leave and prepare for her own epiphanies. Once Vivienne de Fer had left the chamber, Celene Valmont the First did not hurry back to her bureau; she looked upon her city, lions cast in gold and water fountains gurgling merrily.

She looked upon a city that boasted perfect architectural joy, but whose citizens were starving. She took her mask off, and laid it aside on the windowsill, then, as if she had been under the spell of a spindle weed dream, she headed back to her desk, and pulled open a drawer, only to reach inside and remove the thin layer of wood that masked a secret compartment. From this compartment, she extracted other letters, ones only meant for her eyes.

 _This long awaited dawn after a long year of night fills our heart with reverence and joy,_ wrote Queen Anora. _No longer shall we cower before the northern menace – Ferelden and its armies shall stand alongside the Maker's Bride, and the armies of Enlightened Prince Vael. It is our dearest hope that you shall join us; side by side, Orlais and Ferelden, old wounds healed, old hatreds forgotten. While in the Free Marches Kirkwall is still weak, Starkheaven has…_

'And what you mean by that, Anora, is that you fear that if you don't join them, Starkheaven, under the protection of Andraste, will come for you first, and not even you can control what your own subjects believe.' Celene hatefully muttered to herself.

 _And that if I do not join you, you'll come for me, your armies reinforced by Sebastian Vael's, whose men have not been tried in thirty years, and are probably itching in their saddles._

Celene sighed, and read further, but further words did not make her heart go fonder of her fellow southern monarch, so she contented herself on skimming though them – Starkheaven's armies were not the only threat. How willing was Her Radiance to yield the Dales, so hardly won, to the Elvhen threat? Anora rhetorically questioned. Submit, in all but name, to Tevinter? Arl Teagan, the King's own uncle…

The Empress rolled her eyes, and, but for a brief second, imagined herself a girl without a crown, setting a simple quill to paper and writing – _The Dales do not belong to humans. We've stolen them, and massacred the people who rightfully owned them. We would not be yielding them, we would be returning what by force of arms we took…_

But she was no little girl, and she did have a crown; such words, out of her mouth or quill…

She shook her head, put Anora's letter aside, and re-read a second one.

 _We, the unnamed, living Queen of Antiva, salute you, Empress of Orlais. Skilled as we are at the speed at which doves fly, we send a raven, hoping our words will reach you before the poison of Ferelden and Starkheaven does. Ravens are noble birds, so we choose not to burden them with too many words. Heed them – The Royalty of Antiva and Protected Principality of Rivain will acknowledge Arlathan, as we shall acknowledge the re-birth of blessed Andraste._

 _We do remember that Orlais holds a peace and mutual defence treaty with Antiva. We equally hope that should our lands be violated, by either Starkheaven or Ferelden, Orlais will maintain its honour, in our defence._

 _Fair sailing._

'At least she does not mince words,' Celene once more muttered to herself, wondering why she had actually expected the Antivan missive to end in a _yarr!_ as salutation. She did not re-open the brief missive from Minrathous, mostly because she did not yet know whether she loathed or liked the man who ruled _the northern menace_ …

She opened Briala's short and unofficial missive instead, and smelled it, as if the vellum could actually still have carried the perfume of her lover's hair, or the sweetness of her hand's touch…

 _Vhenan,_ it read.

 _Recall your cousin from exile; Ferelden will then think twice before threatening us. War shall come. Please all, bide for time; I do not know where you should stand yet, but I will, soon._

 _I miss making tea for you in the mornings._

 _Bria._

Celene Valmont the First, Radiant Empress of the Orlesian Empire, raked her fingers though her hair, not caring that she'd yanked out almost a fistful, and of that fistful, almost all were white. She wished she had been a girl, without a crown, but she was a crowned woman – some things, like the pinch of a corset, could not be remedied, thus, instead of writing to Briala to tell her she too missed tea in the mornings, she opened Radonis' scroll, and he was as brief with his words as the unnamed Queen of Antiva.

Once she was done, she calmly put her mask back on, and called in her secretary to tell him that the Council of Heralds would need to be assembled. Not to decide whether Orlais would go to war, but to reassess the state of her royal cousin's sentence. Perhaps he would not be given his title, but maybe he could be allowed within the Empire's borders once more? On such matters a frail woman could only defer to wiser men.

It was not for her to decide; it would be in their hands and that would give all some time to breathe; at a push, the Empress thought, she could probably buy all more than two weeks' time to think, and verify whether Andraste was truly Andraste. If she could make it a solid month…

It was, Celene considered a tricky proposition; all those involved would have time to consolidate their powers and position. She would gain that time herself, of course, yet she had no doubt that the Imperium would work furiously to rebuild their military logistics. Under different circumstances, that might not have exceedingly worried her - if taken on its own, and after so many years of bloody clashes with the Qun, the Tevinter military was more nuisance than threat.

And yes, the Empress further thought, not allowing the buzz of the other women who rushed into her bedchamber as soon as she had entered it distract her, Radonis did not seem a belligerent man, but unlike her, the Archon had a Senate to bow to; a Senate still dominated by Imperialist domination fantasies, and drunk on the Imperium's former glory. She had no illusions that if their military had been in any condition to make a significant southern advance, they would not have done so years prior.

The resurgence of the Old Gods was a seismic power shift, however, and coupled with the effects the broken veil was having everywhere outside the Imperium, well...one could only hope and pray that Andraste had truly returned. All other possibilities were too terrifying to contemplate.

It was only after her great procession of chambermaids and ladies in waiting had freed her from her corset, and she lay in the spider-silk linen of her bed that Celene pushed all dark, strategic thoughts out of her mind,allowed herself to shed tears of a much different nature; war might have been coming, but she too missed Briala, their teatimes in the early morning, but unlike Briala, she could not say as much.

* * *

And love Celene we did, in that one. Or at least Abstract did. IvI thinks she's a bit of an unmeasurable quantity.

We thank you all for reading and we love comments, and apologise for the short chapter. It did not logically fit the next part, so we did not want to cobble them together.

Cheers,

Abstract and IvI

PS. IvI insists to tell y'all he that he disapproved of the _yarr!_


	55. I, Clodius

_By gods forsaken, fate emptied of hope,_

 _Wounded I fell then, by grief arrow-studded,_

 _Never to heal, death for me come._

 ** _Andraste 1:6, 3-5_**

* * *

The speed and efficiency with which Arlathan had honoured its encumbering and painful promise to Tevinter might have made any country on the continent proud – the first ships of returned slaves had made port in the Imperium but a week after the ancient city state had received its recognition from both Tevinter and Antiva.

Some had thought that, secure along both of its borders, Arlathan had not wished to lengthen its torment; other, more pragmatic minds, had reasoned that given Starkheaven and Ferelden's threats, the Elvhen nation had seen wisdom in quickly returning the armies of their defenders to true strength. The haughty had mocked it as further proof of Elvhen compulsion to please, and well others had remained silent, as airing their thoughts might have pleased none.

This little nation, only five years in the making had an impressive fleet, and oddly skilled sailors, they might have said. If in five years they'd accomplished this, what might they have accomplished in another ten or twenty? Further, whatever internal enforcement mechanisms Arlathan held, it was obvious that it was implacable and tremendously well organised.

Regardless of size, no other country on Thaedas would have managed the deportation of a third of its population within two short weeks, nor did any other nation hold such a clear record of the exact provenience of its people. The Elvhen had not merely sailed all the returned property to Minrathous, leaving it to the Magisters to redistribute their slaves and haggle – no. The crushing majority of the returned elves had been brought to the port closest to the location where they had been stolen from, and thus Arlathan had reduced the effort the Imperium would have to pose to a minimum.

Some malcontents – mostly those Magisters who did not live in costal cities had still grumbled over transportation costs, conveniently forgetting that the man who had instigated the original rapture had no power to reverse it. Yet, none of it had mattered.

The sheer scale and speed of the deportations was still an impressive feat of government, and while Archon Radonis had not said as much out loud, he'd felt both torn and somewhat terrified. He'd not let the moment go to waste, though – the Elvhen were offloading Tevinter's slaves in numerous, yet controllable locations, and thus given him an opportunity of doing what no Archon had ever done before: an actual headcount.

And the numbers were staggering.

Which each new ship that offloaded its cargo, the dimensions of the economic and military disaster the Imperium had narrowly avoided became clearer and clearer, so much so, in fact, that after the first few days of the elven census, Radonis had ordered that the numbers be presented solely to himself. Even after the restoration of its Gods, Tevinter might have been crippled if the stand-off with Arlathan had lasted another half a year. If half of those returned rebelled…If only a quarter of them did, suppressing the tidal wave of fire and blood that would sweep the nation, while mines stood empty and fields fell fallow would be a disaster.

The threat of such an uprising had seemed remote during the first few days, for the first Elvhen ships had carried the truly willing and eager to return, but chains and whips had soon made an appearance. Wails, cries and curses had filled the air over the Imperium's harbours, and, with each day that passed without Flavius being returned, Radonis' heart had sunk further and further.

For the Imperium, firstly, but then, slowly, implacably, for himself.

He'd not let himself think of how much pain the inevitable meeting would eventually give him; fater thirty four years in power, and because he was closer to seven decades of life than sixty, Clodius Radonis had learned that worrying about future outcomes was an absolute pointless waste of precious time and mental resources. Even more, he'd learned to discern outcomes he could alter from those which were set in stone, and labour as intensely on the former as on minimising the consequences of the latter.

However, no one was utterly immune to a slither of hope – and, glancing at his battered, gagged and chained scribe, who had been been on the very last cargo ship to Minrathous, the Archon of Tevinter admitted to himself that neither age nor experience made him immune to this simple rule.

In his heart of hearts, he'd always known that Flavius was an above average mage, one that, had he benefitted from the same education, might have greatly surpassed many of the Archon's human Altus. The elven scribe was definitely far superior to Cassius' own scribe, which pointed to one unshakeable truth: Flavius had gone to Arlathan willingly, and that he'd not be willing to return.

Still, Radonis had dared hope that once he too, grasped the inevitable, Flavius would be wise enough to conceal his unwillingness, at least for long enough to slip it past Cassius; accept the inevitable, thing of his own well being and board the first ship, not the very last.

If that would come to pass, the Archon had promised himself that he would free his oldest companion in life, and let him return to wherever he wished to. For a short while, for as briefly as his correspondence with the leaders of the Elvhen city had lasted, the Archon had indulged that hope rather too much – Flavius had not written directly, nor had any document sent been in his hand. His advice had nonetheless been obvious in the drawing of maps and establishment of borders, while the Tevene version of Arlathan's independence proclamation had been perfect, even somewhat too perfect, with needlessly academic incursions into Old Tevene that Radonis had immediately recognised as his own.

 _Or perhaps they were always Flavius',_ Radonis thought, _I've dictated to him since I was eleven, but I've read his compositions for the same length of time. We've worked words into phrases together for half a century…In the end, I gather neither of us could truly tell what is mine and what is his in our shared language._

The document that he had passed through Magisterium two weeks prior also clearly betrayed knowledge of the workings of the Imperium's legal system that a scholar in law might have struggled to master, and, in reading it the first time, Radonis had indeed allowed himself to hope. Until he had arrived at the last section, the one which regarded the return of Tevinter's slaves; the language was not outright clumsy, but it was not Flavius', and the too straight forward proposition showed no care to the punishments that an escaped slave might suffer, nor included the few legal loopholes a slave might have employed to escape them, which Flavius would have known all too well, as he had weaselled them out of the Archon years before.

That last part had not been written by Flavius, the Archon had known; he had not proofed it. Perhaps he had not even read it. And still, he'd hoped.

And he was hoping still.

'You bring me tenderised live elf, Cassius,' Radonis said, resting his chin on the back of his left palm. 'Ten times more disappointing than elk and pheasant, as it is bound and it has festered in its binds already. What made you think that I should need him in this state? If he were beef of choice you would not beat him so to make his flesh more pliant.'

'His own kin delivered him thus.' Cassius said, narrowing his eyes, but grinning wide. 'I know your grace you prefer that these wounds we inflicted upon him by me, and my loyal army of many, but thus he was delivered and thus I delivered him. A gift of a tender elf to you, from your most faithful apprentice, and the free city of Arlathan, your grace.'

Flavius' gaze gleaned across his, carrying no hope of willingness to pretend; in fact, his slanted green eyes shone with outright fury and defiance so fierce that Radonis thanked all the Gods, real or imaginary, winged or not, for the gag.

'I take this to mean,' Cassius smoothly followed, 'that the wisdom of the Tillani-Pavus motion was gladly accepted by all of our new allies in the Elvhen city-state. Well,' he mockingly reconsidered, giving the bound elf a rough nudge, and causing him to fall to his knees, for his ankles were tightly bound, 'perhaps not by _all_. Only by those who count. With this one's return, our business with them may be considered concluded.'

Despite his frozen, unreadable smile, Radonis inwardly shuddered, and quickly started calculating mitigations, or rather, looking for some way out of the trap he'd just been thrust into. Cassius was not alone; he had brought two of his Senate Altus – _witnesses_ , Radonis angrily thought. If the accursed, petty man had come to gloat over Flavius' misfortunes alone, the Archon reckoned he might gladly have sent him out spinning before his treasured scribe could get himself into more trouble than he was already in.

While Cassius, the Archon considered, looking to his former apprentice with studied benevolence, was out to snatch as much of a victory as he still could2.

 _I stopped him from getting one ear off every returned elf, and now he'll make a point of turning one that he knows I hold dear to cinder, slowly._

'Thank you for returning my servant.' Radonis said, still hoping. 'Though I am assured you are as pleased by its condition as the butcher's dog might be, I might have hoped you would at least take care to wash it before you brought it in here. Still, I appreciate your celerity, and thank you, indeed, Magister Cassius. Now, leave my property to me.'

 _Before he speaks whatever storm of hatred that's raging in his heart and shining in his eyes out loud, in front of witnesses._

Cassius bowed, but, instead of stepping back he stepped forth, ripping the gag out of the elf's mouth, and yanking a fistful of his hair along with it; Flavius winced, and took a few pained breaths though his wide open mouth.

'An escaped slave,' the Magister casually reminded, 'may be not be lashed more than ten times, if he returns of his own will.'

'Your point?' Radonis shot back. 'This is a law I wrote. You need not recite it to me.'

Cassius adjusted his voice with a cough. 'Yes, I know,' he agreeably said. 'You also wrote that the will to return must be explicitly and clearly voiced.'

 _Manaveris Dracona,_ Radonis thought, no longer caring to distinguish Flavius' phrases from his own, _when we wrote that we wrote it so that masters do not dispose of their slaves' lives on a whim. You, Flavius, said that before that change of wording all could proclaim their least favoured slave escaped, whip him to death, then claim money from the Imperium's soldiers for allowing the escaped one to go undetected. You, Flavius, put it as stamping out minor fiscal evasion from so many sources that it was actually relevant, but I knew what you meant, and we agreed to write it….though, in the back of my mind, I found the masters' legal ability to kill whomever they pleased was dangerous to an increasingly diminishing pool of resources... We agreed to write it, and tried to make the masters' liable for a slave's death, or at least face public embarrassment at being questioned for it._

However, Radonis remembered, not breathing in deeply, we both agreed that if we limit the masters' power in one way we must give it back in others.

 _Oh, Gods._

They'd also written that should the vocal, explicit, and witnessed renunciation of the ill deed was not offered, the slave in cause was to be considered an enemy of the state, and could be killed at leisure; further, if the escaped slave proclaimed his own freedom, against the laws of the Imperium, then he was to be put to pain and death in such a manner as to deter all others.

 _You know those words, Flavius, you wrote them,_ Radonis thought. _You know them, now speak them._

'I will punish it by no more than ten lashes, once it admits it is mine to punish,' he said, looking Flavius in the eyes.

'After that, I shall take my leave, and gladly witness no more than ten lashes.' Cassius said. 'Once it admits that it is yours to punish.'

Radonis' glance crossed Flavius' once more, and all hope should have withered – but it did not.

'After you have your punishment, in view of these impartial others, and an admission of wrongdoing, I'll free you, Flavius,' Clodius Radonis said, rising to his feet, meeting and sustaining his scribe's glance. 'I swear.'

And though he knew the words, for he had written them himself, Flavius looked up at him, and bitterly smiled.

'You cannot free me. I am already free.'

All hope then turned to ash, and Radonis closed his eyes; in part because he did not wish for even a trace of emotion to escape them. In part, because he knew that if he would behold Cassius' smile for a mere heartbeat, he'd strangle him with his bare hands, in front of witnesses.

Which, Clodius Radonis knew he could not do. A lot of _mitigation_ would have to happen before that.

* * *

'Look ye here,' one of the guardsmen said, turning away from the most recent captive, and standing to face Solas. 'Somebody left their dog untethered…'

He menacingly made for the cage, rattling the split stick he'd been using on the other elf; without a worry for himself, Solas took a step forth to face him in turn, still keeping himself out of arm's reach behind the bars of his cage. His gaze alone stopped the would-be punisher in mid step.

'It is me you have been sent to injure,' Solas repeated, not fearing he would reignite the man's ire, but actively wishing that he would. 'Why settle for a lesser target? Be brave. Draw blood from me, not him.'

The human did not move, though, and he dared not approach. Caught between what he thought might have been a display of courage to speak about to anyone who'd listen – for, truly, few could boast that they had seen the enemy of all the Gods with their own eyes, let alone lashed it to submission – and the blue, icy gaze of that same enemy of all the Gods, who did not look as if he would ever submit.

The glance that said there was never any wisdom in putting an arm into a tiger's cage just to see if it bit as hard as legend said it would.

Still, now the advance had been made, and he could not withdraw without losing face; he settled for an unsatisfactory mid way, and powerfully lashed the bars. The accursed elf did not even blink, and, for what was worse, the other elf laughed, as if his hands had not been tied behind his back and he too had a bite.

This, above all the guardsman could not countenance: being stared down by one of the bloody creatures, and then laughed at by another. He furiously spun on himself, and lashed his bound captive with such blind rage that he barely missed his own companion – the second human drew back, letting go of the prisoner, and looking to the man as if he'd been questioning his sanity.

The blow still landed, drawing blood, and it was not his sanity, the guardsman knew, that was in question, for though the elf hissed in pain, he laughed once more.

'Thank you,' he said, between gritted teeth.

'Wha'…' the guardsman stuttered.

'I said – Thank you,' the blonde elf repeated. 'Strike me so a few more times, and you'll be robbing unassailable Minrathous of quite the spectacle tomorrow. Thank you,' it said, after a second blow followed – the split stick was bloodied, and scattered crimson droplets over the second human's face as the guardsman lifted his arm to strike again.

'Oi,' the other human said, catching the furious guard's wrist. 'Enough.'

'D'ya hear how it just spoke to me?' the guard grunted.

'Aye, an' I also heard what it said,' his companion replied, wiping his face clean of blood in utter disgust. 'Leave be. The healthier it is, the longer it will roast.' He added, with a chillingly pleased undertone. 'Leave be.'

The guardsman hesitated for a second, but, in the end, saw wisdom. There was clearly no sport to be made here, not today, but there would be good sport tomorrow; it did not matter who would eventually put the crazy elf in his place, as long as he, and all the others like him were put in their places. And they would be, all of them to the last.

'I hope they put ya in the front row before that scaffold,' he nonetheless hissed at the caged one. 'It'd be well earned, as it's ya who put him on it.'

He spat to the side and stalked out of the cell.

As soon as the humans had gone, and the bar had been duly placed across the door, the blonde elf allowed himself a pained groan, and let himself slip to the floor. With his arms still bound, it took him a few painful movements to sit – free of the humans' presence, Solas allowed himself weakness in turn, and closed his eyes to hide from the other elf's pains, as well as from the fact that the guard's last words had found true aim. By his misjudgements…

'Do you know who I am?' he whispered; the blonde elf looked to him, with a frown of surprise.

'Of course,' he said. 'There was a city full of us, but only one of _you_.'

'And do you think…'

'No,' the other responded, shaking his head and smiling, despite the bruises and the still open wounds. 'You were right,' he added. 'I was placed here to cause you insult and injury, and, if I might be so daring, I would ask you not to allow them the pleasure for I certainly shall not. Gods,' the man whispered, 'when you and Abelas speak the language of _the people_ your words sound like music. When I speak it, it sounds like nails upon a chalk board; it must be so offensive to your ears…'

'That you speak it at all is a wonder,' Solas said, softly, 'and well you speak it, _lethallin_. What I take offence in should be the last of your concerns…'

'Flavius,' the other offered. 'Flavius, most recently of Arlathan. A free man of Tevinter for the next, oh…sixteen or so turns of a clock's face. After which,' he sighed, looking to the ceiling, 'I will be either four pieces of a free man, heading rapidly in vastly different directions, or a handful of ash.'

Solas sat, as close to the other as the cage would allow him, and leaned on the same wall.

'I gather,' he said, 'that others found greater offence in your Tevene than I ever could find in your Elvhen.'

'I had choice audience,' Flavius chuckled, 'and so I spoke words that were rather choice, in turn. I am not sorry,' he said, still smiling, 'though I'll admit to fear, and that I would prefer the horses to the pyre... But - you look well,' Flavius amusedly said. 'To hear Cassius describe it, he'd turned you into a whimpering wreck.'

'Ah,' Solas bitterly chuckled, in turn. 'At the hands of Magister Cassius you found your way to this abode?'

'He was the river's final turn before my tumbling off a cliff,' Flavius answered, with a shrug. 'Still…'

The door drifted ajar, cutting his words off. There was no anger in its swing, no creak in its hinges, and Solas unwillingly braced, as he had long stopped doing under threat of bodily pain. He hastily stood again, not in respect but in surprise.

The Dread Wolf had only once seen the Archon of Tevinter so closely, on the day of disgrace that he continuously struggled to forget; the Ferryman's ring, though, was entirely recognisable, because it was not truly a ring. It was long, golden claw, designed to be placed upon the right hand ring finger of the bearer and Clodius Radonis used that very ring to softly close the door behind him.

There was no slam, no creak, no threat. Just an elegant, tall human growing old in his black velvet robes.

'You will recant,' the Ferryman of Tevinter and heir to Darinius said, towering above Flavius and paying Solas no heed, aside for a passing, disinterested glance.

'No, I will not,' Flavius said.

'You _will_ recant.' Radonis repeated – and it was then that Solas, forgotten as he was, wanted that his kin would look upon the human with the same disgust he felt. He wanted for his _lethallin_ to tell the human he was no master, and thus could issue no commands. 'Flavius,' the human said, in the same tone that, to Solas' ear, one might have used to command a dog.

To his surprise, however, Flavius had not heard the same thing, nor acted as a dog fearing punishment. The blonde elf merely narrowed his eyes. 'Clodius,' he said, 'my shoulders really ache. Do you think that you could…'

Without a word, the Archon of Tevinter made the ropes that bound his scribe's wrists loose enough for Flavius to wriggle his hands out and slowly rotate his shoulders.

'We're in deep shit,' the Archon sighed; the words made Solas frown and focus. It was not only the profanity, though it hardly fit the reports of Radonis as an excessively polite man – it was the familiarity that it implied…had he said _we?_ Solas thought.

The words and the tone did not seem to surprise Flavius, however. He sighed in turn. 'I know,' he said. 'I'm sorry.'

'That's all you need to say, tomorrow. That you are sorry.' The human briskly replied.

'I know,' Flavius nodded. 'But I will not…not before Cassius and his lackeys, and not upon that scaffold. Because I don't regret the words,' he softly followed. 'I merely regret dragging you in troubled waters after me.'

'You know each other?' Solas asked, in Elvhen. Radonis frowned at the interruption, but the second glance he spared Solas was not hate filled – merely annoyed.

'Since we were two years old, yes,' Flavius chuckled, looking upon the Ferryman with undeniable warmth; the highest amid the slaving usurpers glanced back, and, for however much Solas had wished, there was no hatred and no resentment in his eyes, either. 'I probably introduced myself too briefly,' the other elf added. 'I am Flavius, _of the House Radonis_ , most recently of Arlathan. And this,' he added, slowly gesturing towards the human, 'is my friend and brother, Clodius of the House Radonis, most recently of Minrathous, Ferryman of Tevinter and Heir to Darinius, who, for all his names and titles, cannot spare me or himself pain…I am surprised the two of you are not better acquainted,' he said, arching a questioning eyebrow.

'Yes, well, it would hardly have been practical for me to suddenly develop a taste for torturing elves precisely when there were none on hand,' Radonis muttered, in passable Elvhen. 'Plus, he was keeping Cassius busy, and hence out of my hair…Flavius,' he said, reverting to Tevene, and pointedly ignoring Solas, 'you _will_ recant. I cannot give you to the hangman if you don't…Oh, kaffas.'

The human sighed, and tiredly sat down by Flavius' side, making Solas wish that he could have lent the two men privacy – whatever was about to happen here was not what he'd expected to see, nor was he sure he wanted to witness, because…

'I cannot even spare you the torture on the sly, old friend,' Radonis gently said. 'Due to your words, and before whom they were uttered, the entire city is expecting a full day's entertainment.'

'Sell tickets,' Flavius said, dryly. 'Should bring state finance back in line.'

'Stop jesting,' the Archon snapped. 'You've placed me in an impossible position – I have tens of thousands being forcefully returned; the entire country is sitting on a powder keg and I cannot be seen extending mercy to a rebel.'

'You speak as if it were you who was about to burn, not I,' the blonde elf scolded. 'And, by the way, you filed the independence motion wrong,' Flavius said – as if it had been a magic phrase, the Archon let his shoulder droop and rolled his eyes in a way that looked entirely too childish for his features. 'It should have been Pavus-Tilani, not Tilani-Pavus. P alphabetically comes before T, and no matter what Titus Pulli thinks, we do not file in order of political importance, we file in alphabetical order, because…'

'…political importance is transitory, while the alphabet is not,' the human groaned. 'Is that what you are worried about _now?'_

'Seems like a more pleasant thing to contemplate than in which horrid way I'll die tomorrow.'

'You will not die in any horrid way, tomorrow. You…'

'How is it faring, by the way? The motion, I mean.' Flavius asked, in a sorrowful whisper. 'Did all this cruelty and treason yield any…'

' _Homo homini lupus_ ,' Radonis answered, in the same sadness riddled tone. 'I guess it holds true for your people as well.'

The Archon shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, then tried to smile.

'Well, I am pleased to inform you that the courts of Antiva, Rivain and the Chantry did not notice the Altus Pulli's misfiling, and have granted Arlathan statehood. Orlais is dithering, but that is what they do. I have private assurances that they will grant Arlathan a decree in good time.'

Solas' heart skipped a beat, and though he'd removed himself to the farthest and darkest corner of his cage, he could not help but breathe an audible sigh of surprise. Radonis looked his way, this time, intently, and nodded, for him alone; the elf unwillingly lowered his glance.

 _They did it,_ Solas thought, before he could supress the notion. _A battle hard won, at a terrible price… a battle, not the war, but…_

'Free Marches and Ferelden?' Flavius further inquired; Radonis shook his head.

'Ferelden seems determined to only roll over when it dies. We have Kirkwall, but not Starkheaven, so not the Free Marches as a whole – but they cannot reach your borders unless they invade Antiva, and I am sure you're better able to list all of the treaties they would be breaking if they tried, so…We'll worry about them another day.'

'You'll worry,' Flavius corrected, with heart-rending simplicity.

The human pressed his index and ring finger to his forehead.

'I cannot save you, Flavius,' Radonis said. 'My hands are tied, and you have tied them - we've worked, so hard, to establish law and not whim rules this land; this is _our_ life's work, not only mine. We both knew that if we put our thoughts into that very law, the powers of the Archon's office would be greatly reduced. I cannot pardon you; I cannot even commute your sentence. Recant,' Radonis said. 'Now, in writing – I'll take dictation, if you wish; you will still need to sign it, and I will bring sufficient witnesses to drown out any doubt.'

'If Tevinter were a man, and that man was you, Clodius, I'd never have left it.' Flavius said. 'I left…'

'…to make a point, and now, that point is made. Recant the freedom claim,' the Archon repeated. 'Please,' he said, closing his eyes. 'Please, if you stand on that pyre in the morning, in defiance of the Archon himself, there will be hundreds upon hundreds of other pyres. So many of your returned people will be in the city tomorrow…'

The blonde elf looked to the ill lit ceiling.

'You should not mock poor Titus Pulli for once,' Radonis said. 'Your…well now _his_ desk is groaning under the weight of so many complaints, claims of withheld slaves and compensation demands that even you would go mad…'

'They are just beasts, aren't they?' Flavius asked, grinding his teeth. 'Insatiable, ravenous beasts. Your fellow Magisters…'

'Be that as it may, those who travelled on those last ships will be in chains, waiting to be given to some human or another. They will be here, and witness your torment, or hear of it – you cannot be rebellious without encouraging rebellion, and if you instigate rebellion, Flavius, it will be quashed without mercy, with far more cruelty than one day's torment.'

'Their ashes on your soul,' Flavius shakily said.

'And on yours, friend,' Radonis replied, 'for not stopping what you alone can still stop. Think not of me, or any greater implications if you no longer care. Still, Delia Aurelia and your sons deserve much more than watching you tortured, mere hours after hoping you'd returned…'

'Don't even think to bring them there,' the elf angrily snapped. 'Don't you descend _in vulgus_ , now…'

'I bloody well should,' the human snapped back.

'The boys don't even know that I'm their father.'

'Yes, because Aurelian is dim by nature, and Delius can't read to save his life,' Radonis muttered. 'Of course they know that you're their father, you foolish, foolish man!'

The blonde elf paused, and looked to his hands in silence for a moment spun out enough for Solas to understand unmentionable truths about his fellow captive: a human friend, a human bonded mate and human children, and still, he'd gone to Arlathan, only to be traded back as merchandise.

 _A man's life, fully lived and perhaps happy, for a square foot of land._

'It is not in you to allow Delia Aurelia anywhere near Imperator's Square tomorrow,' Flavius blandly said. 'People may only see the Ferryman, at times, and cast you in the dark shadows of those who went before you, but I know you better – Delia and my sons have been in Vyrantium for weeks, if not for months.'

The Archon breathed out hotly, and looked away.

'Not for months,' he yielded. 'But I sent them away as soon as the motion was so wrongly filed. Livia is with them, now, so Delia…'

'…has a shoulder to cry on.' Flavius said, softly. 'Or, eyes to scratch out. Whichever may come first. How odd,' he whispered. 'We have been friends our entire lives, and still our women hate each other.'

'It is, perhaps, because you took the one you chose, and I took whom I had to,' Radonis answered. 'I think that tears are far more likely. Take pity on the only one who cannot shed them, Flavius,' he whispered. 'Recant the freedom claim. Your blood is already on my hands. Don't let your ashes rain upon my soul as well…'

The slave gazed kindly upon his master, then sighed and closed his eyes. 'You know,' he slowly spoke, 'I never envied you…Even less so after we won that ring of yours. Yet, even before that, Clodius, you…You were brought into this world to be a vessel of ghosts, a calculated investment, never a child…and, you…you acted as if you knew it and were resigned to it, in a way that was unnatural; you could not stomp in a puddle and just enjoy getting dirty…'

'As I recall,' the human frowned, 'we did that quite a lot.'

'Yes,' the elf said, smiling, 'because I dared you, like I dared you to jump from that stupid tree into the haystack, and you missed the haystack…'

'…and now, sixty years later and on the hour of your death, you are still mocking me for it,' Radonis said, smirking.

'I don't think I have laughed that much before, or ever since. It was glorious,' Flavius chuckled.

'I could have died,' the Archon earnestly protested.

'The tree was six feet high, and you landed in freshly scooped chicken muck. You couldn't have died – the worst that could have happened was that you would get a stern telling off and I would get clipped over the ear for encouraging you to do something…normal. I was as deep and philosophical as any other six year old, so I did not think it at the time, but,' the elf followed, warmth draining from his voice, 'and,' he humourlessly jested, 'by your will, I was indeed exposed to philosophy, that image of you, after you'd stood up, lingers because you were neither scared, nor angry at me for laughing, you were not even ashamed at having turned yourself into a walking horror of hay and bird poop…You simply looked _guilty.'_

Radonis looked away.

'Not the guilt of a caught bandit, composing himself for fear of punishment, Clodius. Gods merciful,' the elf sighed, 'it looked as if your entire family, if not the whole of the Liberalum, had jumped with you from that branch, and you had utterly failed them by missing the haystack; it was as if you knew that now, there was no hiding our caper, and that it was your fault that I would be punished – it was as if the little boy you were had, for an instant, become as old and riddled with responsibility as the foundations of the House Radonis itself.'

'I saw that growing in you with every year that passed, until we found better uses for haystacks than jumping in them. All those around you, even I and the kitchen maid with whom I was merrily employing those haystacks, had a life. You merely had a purpose, and for the grace with which you bore that purpose I loved you and I love you still – but Clodius, you cannot, and should not, shoulder the guilt of all the ghosts that you never chose to embody. My blood is not on your hands, nor are my ashes on your soul. It's on this land, such as it is, and the land will soak up blood, and sweat, and tears, and remain as indifferent to ashes as it has been for millennia.'

'I thought that we were changing that,' Radonis said, softly.

'Time lost its patience,' Flavius responded. 'So did I.'

'And still, I would have never guessed you were so bitter…'

'Bitter?' the elf scoffed. 'I was raging! How long did they debate the ten lash rule, in Magisterium, Clodius? You might not remember it, but I distinctly do: it was eight months, my friend, eight months, during which I sat by your side, watching a room full of fat, contented lice, who'd never even felt one lash of a whip, debate whether ten was quite enough or fifteen should be more appropriate!'

'I,' he said, though gritted teeth, 'would hate Veldrin Pavus and go to the pyre cursing her name, if I did not think that sitting there and watching them talk of _her_ people, _my_ people as if they were no more than furniture was not in itself a brand of Hell that is for elves alone, and that she will be burning in it for far longer than I will last in the flames tomorrow…You cannot save me, for I shan't be saved,' he added, his voice dying to a whisper, 'but if you'll grant me one last wish, make sure that Pavus and Tilani sit right beside your throne tomorrow and watch it all.'

'They bought you your borders,' Radonis neutrally noted.

'Indeed, they did. So, I would gladly have them know the price they have _not_ paid themselves. Do you not see?' Flavius said, shaking his head. 'I fear tomorrow, but it had to be me, Clodius, for both them and you; that's why I waited, that is why I fought to the very end - the price cannot be left hypothetical, it cannot be a faceless, nameless number of slaves on pyres across the land, a statistic compiled by a bored human questor, who thinks ten elves more or less are in the margin of error...It has to be me, so that they remember. So that _you_ remember.'

 _We are,_ Solas numbly thought, _the last of the Elvhen. Never again shall we submit._

'I understand,' the human tiredly said.

He gathered himself and rose to his feet, looking heavy and awkward. He breathed out something that, to Solas' ears, sounded like a sob, but hastily breathed it back in.

'These are your last words to me, then?' he asked, looking over his shoulder to his slave.

Flavius tried to smile. 'I could remind you that the Ferryman of Tevinter not only wields the ring of Darinius. He also wields the Blade of Mercy.'

'It fell out of fashion quite rapidly after you left,' the Archon dryly said, looking to the door as if, despite his age, he'd been thinking of darting straight through it. 'Anything else?' he asked, with his back turned.

The blonde elf paused, then shakily struggled to his feet, his hands finding aid on every crevice of the wall behind him – he'd all but been standing when he slipped, and might had fallen to his knees if Radonis had not turned to catch him.

Still, one man was injured, and the other was old, thus they both staggered and came down to the ground upon their knees. Both winced, in shared pain caused by different reasons, and their embrace grew as tight as their lives, in the same world, had been apart.

'Take care of my sons,' Flavius whispered.

A dagger glinted in the sorrowful light of one half wet torch.

'Always,' Radonis said, placing his hand on his friend's forehead. Solas was too slow to stand, and even slower to understand what was unfolding before his very eyes, for what he first guessed as Flavius' blood upon the cold stones of the floor was not the elf's blood.

'No, Clodius, no,' Flavius begged, as his feet started shaking beyond control. 'No, please, no…'

'You were right,' Clodius Radonis soothingly spoke; the tremor seemed to ascend the blonde elf's spine, and his hands flapped haplessly, like the wings of a flightless bird. 'You did have a life while I only had a purpose. I am sorry,' the Archon of Tevinter said, as Flavius' eyes started rolling, madly. 'I loved you more than any man, and I will avenge you...I will, my brother. I swear.'

Flavius' eyes stopped rolling and the Archon stopped speaking; he held his friend's limp body to his chest until all tremors had passed, and the elf's eyes were utterly empty and glassy, still, not deprived of life. The will-less body then withdrew by itself, crawling back to the wall.

Radonis stood, and lifted his sleeve to behold the place where he'd deeply thrust the dagger into his own flesh. He slowly sheathed the dagger, then carelessly wiped out the small circle he'd drawn with its tip by dragging his foot across it.

'You…' Solas breathed, in true fury grasping and shaking the bars of his cage. 'You owned that man's life and body, you robbed him from himself the day that you were born!'

'Your point being?' Radonis asked, painfully feigning indifference.

'When you were done with his life, you robbed him of all dignity in death!' Solas growled.

The Archon of Tevinter looked upon the caged wolf, and slowly shook his head, in something that painfully resembled pity.

'There is no dignity in death,' Clodius Radonis replied, clenching his jaws. 'Death stands alone – neither heroic, nor meaningful, for as much as we would like to think it so. If you had ever been truly responsible for anything other than your own…dignity, you might have learned that in the thousands of years you count.'

* * *

Uuh, long, sad and charged - and updated a bit.

Thank you for reading and commenting,

Cheers,

Abstract & IvI


	56. No Third Chances

_"All this is yours," spoke the World-Maker._

 _"Join Me in Heaven and sorrow no more."_

 ** _Andraste 1: 30-32_**

* * *

'…and you are supposed to be….? I fear we have not been introduced, darling.' Vivienne queried of the dark haired, blue eyed man she had never seen before.

To her surprise, the man smiled.

'I am the thing you most fear,' he responded. 'The brutal undoing of all your truths.'

'How charming,' Vivienne replied, smiling in her turn. 'Still, may I have a shorter name to call you by?'

'His name is Lusacan, Watcher of the Night,' Varric hissed. 'He prefers Lord Watcher, and can you please not…'

'Enchanted, Lord Watcher,' Vivienne said, speaking over the dwarf and indifferently offering her fingers for a kiss; the man who called himself the brutal undoing of all truths politely bowed, and pressed his lips to her hand, in a very gentlemanly manner.

 _Well, this is…unexpected,_ she thought, offering him her most dazzling smile.

As many things were unexpected, the grand Enchanter corrected herself. The Orlesian Empire had indeed dithered, and Celene's idea of recalling Gaspard du Chalons from exile had given even Ferelden some shocked pause. Not Starkheaven, though – the fact that the first thing Celene Valmont had done was restore her warmongering cousin to land and station had seemed to enrage Sebastian Vael even more. No civilised letter, assuring that Orlais was merely strengthening its armies, had fooled the Enlightened Prince of Starkheaven, who wished for no more than a full declaration of war on Tevinter and Arlathan, and a proclamation of recognition for the re-born Andraste.

When no other nation had immediately followed suit, he'd sent his glorious, divine, news to all nations on the continent, even the Anderfels – though one might easily have imagined that his strongly worded letters had not seen much polite use amid the Avvar tribes.

The man, Celene Valmont had said, was either truly possessed by a divine spirit, or outright mad, but, she had wisely followed up, when speaking to a madman, the best thing to do is keep them talking, thus…

In true military calculation, and given the fact that spies firmly reported that no change had been observed over the condition of the Veil over Starkheaven since Andraste's miraculous apparition, the only nation who Vael could credibly threaten was Kirkwall – he was in no position to be a threat to either Ferelden or Orlais. The two great powerhouses of the south had craftily avoided the Elvhen issue, yet responded that they wished to offer their adoration to Andraste in person, and the Maker's Bride had received cordial invitations to both Val Royaux and Denerim; she'd not deigned to respond.

Even to one whose heart was filled with hope that Andraste's return was true, doubt had been insidiously seeded. Vivienne de Fer could think of no reason why the Maker's Bride would not make herself known to the world by taking her rightful place on the Sunburst throne – and that had been even before she'd first laid eyes on this…this man, she'd forced herself to think, watching Lusacan curiously stare at the Divine's Holy Chamber, with its golden throne and its rich paintings and tapestries.

One might have thought, Vivienne considered, ignoring the rest of the company, and focussing on Lusacan alone, that the Maker would not tolerate such a violation of one of his most sacred houses. If this man was truly one of Tevinter's Old Gods, he should not have been able to stroll leisurely though this hollowed hall, as if he'd been strolling though his own bedchamber.

And yet, he was.

For what was worse, the sensation of perpetual fatigue that had been plaguing her and all other humans of Val Royaux for the past year had immediately eased when Lusacan had merely set foot in the city. The tug of the other world's denizens on her mind had ceased too – she felt at ease.

She felt _uncertain_.

Eager to rid herself of the sensation, Vivienne forcibly directed her focus away from Lusacan, and measured her old companions with half lidded eyes – Lavellan, not a day older; Pavus, not one ounce fatter…Cassandra, on her throne, looking alone and destitute, as no anointed Divine should have ever seemed. Josephine, drawn and worried. Varric…well, she would have much liked to think Varric was still Varric, but she inwardly had to admit the dwarf looked nothing like the impudent and carefree creature she'd known during the year of the Inquisition _._

Still he looked nothing of the sort – for as little as the Grand Enchanter liked to admit it to herself – Varric did look as the Viscount of Kirkwall, though there was nothing in his garb that might have pointed to it; his tunic was still indecently open, his forest of chest hairs on full display, and he was not wearing his chain of state. The burden of rule was still on his shoulders, an invisible shroud weaved of iron rather than fine silk.

He must have known his city was the first pebble in the path of the new Andrastian crusade; whatever the dwarf was, he was not dumb…but he was here.

Vivienne sat, her arms and legs elegantly crossed, on the throne reserved for the Grand Enchanter, and beheld all with fake, but impeccably mimicked benevolence.

'So small a host…' she said, into thin air.

'The Lion Empress made such requests to the Heir of Darinius.' Lusacan answered. Under any different circumstances, Vivienne unwillingly thought, she might have found the man rather attractive; perhaps they had been duped, and this was the one who controlled thoughts. 'As proof of our goodwill, we have chosen to honour her wishes.'

'Or,' Vivienne politely reasoned, 'you do not wish for the truth of Andraste's rebirth to be witnessed by too many.'

Lusacan laughed and turned towards her, taking his fingers off the cup that had, during Ferelden's Blight, carried Andraste's ashes.

'A woman of spirit,' he remarked, towards Veldrin. 'We thought them few and far between, and yet, behold…'

In his turn, he sat upon the throne once reserved for the commanders of the Seekers of Truth. It should have burned his flesh to cinder, but it did not, nor did Cassandra bat an eyelid at what Vivienne herself might have perceived as a lethal insult to the Seeker's order.

'Perhaps it is the contrary, Madame de Fer,' Lusacan added, with a wry smile. 'Perhaps we wished the truth of the fact that she is not reborn to not be spread too far…Such steely demeanour…' he chuckled, when Vivienne angrily clenched her fingers in her lap so tightly that her long nails grew white.

'Of that, I think we warned you,' Veldrin sighed.

'But of her grace and beauty you did not warn, my little sister,' the blue eyed-man seductively said, his unnatural eyes not leaving Vivienne's. 'They are enough for us to forgive the Lion Empress for not greeting us herself. Seat yourselves, all. 'Tis not a wake we are attending. Or well, at least not yet.' He merrily added.

Uneasily, all slowly obeyed, spreading about the room. When graced by crowds come to see her worship, the Divine, even this great hall seemed cluttered; now, with only so few present, it seemed deplorably empty and meaningless.

'If Andraste herself wanted to be seen and heard,' Dorian said, dryly, choosing a random pew, and tapping on the seat next to his, to invite his wife by his side, 'why is she not here? Vivienne?'

Vivienne took a deep breath. 'By such means the Maker's Bride has been entrapped before, Magister Pavus…'

'Why not Denerim, then?' Veldrin asked.

'Ah, that one _I_ have an answer for,' Varric growled. 'Word must have reached her that Ali…'

'You mean, of course, His Grace King Alistair Therein,' Vivienne corrected, with a smirk.

'I mean Ali,' Varric annoyedly returned. 'Ali wrote to King Bhaelean Aeducan in Orzammar, asking him to send a delegation of his most trusted advisors to Denerim…'

'…but Aeducan laughed in his face,' Cassandra tiredly intervened, for the first time.

'…making it clear,' Josephine followed, 'that the name Therein means nought to him, but the shield who stood behind the Hero of Ferelden, and then betrayed her and the elder races by taking a human wife, for a sake of a crown. He owes nothing to the House Therein. He will not sacrifice his advisors to the sunlight – even though he has opened more to the surface, prejudices exist – and that, in fact…'

'And that, in fact, he does not give a jot who rules the surface, as long as the lyrium keeps flowing upwards, and the gold keeps flowing downwards. Ferelden and Orlais, in peace time, are fickle clients.' Varric ended.

 _Of course,_ Vivienne thought. _A war, any war, serves the dwarves well._

'Does Her Radiance know this?' the Grand Enchanter asked.

'Well,' Varric muttered, 'if we do, and this Andraste figure does, I imagine she does too…And so,' he followed, in false merriment, 'it looks as though the fate of the continent rests firmly in your capable hands, Vivienne.'

She smiled, baring enough of her teeth to make the dwarf sure that the next jibe would cost him his jugular.

'Divine Victoria might wish to have a say in the matter,' Vivienne said, keeping her voice smooth and pleasant. She half bowed to Cassandra, nonetheless thinking that if _she_ had been sitting on the Sunburst throne, things would never have reached such dangerous heights.

'If you still want the hat, Vivienne,' the Divine replied, stingingly, 'I can toss it to you and it'll be a done deal. This,' she said, 'is the last thing I had hoped would fall to me.'

There was deep silence in the wake of her words, and Vivienne once more took in the large room, with its floor to ceiling sunlit windows, its gilded chairs and its floor, covered in perfect mosaics. She beheld the small assembly once more – Dorian and Veldrin Pavus, Cassandra Penthaghast, Josephine Montilyet, Varric Tethras…the man with the sapphire eyes…

Vivienne lowered her head and let her glance run along the mosaics of the floor; one of the small polished stones was minutely out of place, she discovered.

'You all know something I do not,' she neutrally said.

'Indeed, Madame,' the man who had introduced himself as the brutal destroyer of all her truths said – and, right then and there, Vivienne decided that on least this, Tevinter must have cheated, and he was the one who could read and influence thought, for she truly found him pleasant and not objectionable at all.

She rose her gaze to his, instead of Veldrin's.

'So, tell me, _old friends,_ ' she said. 'What do I not know?'

The two rats in Tevinter mage garb exchanged a glance that she could not quite read. Dorian put his hand over Veldrin's, to Vivienne's eyes, dispelling one more too oft spoken of lie: that men who preferred men, and women who preferred women were incurable of their inclinations, even if the right woman or man could be found. They clearly were not.

'We can,' Dorian said, 'but we do not wish to. We… _all_ ,' he followed, sounding far less certain of himself than usual, 'want you to come to your own conclusions.'

'Conclusions you all share, I gather?' Vivienne de Fer asked, arching an eyebrow.

'Not all,' Josephine softly replied, exchanging a quick glance with Cassandra, 'or at least not yet. Your uninfluenced wisdom would be welcome.'

'Let us say I accept that,' Vivienne responded, examining one of her nails, but not being able to displace the small, crookedly placed piece of the mosaic from her mind. 'What does this distinguished company want to know of me, darling?'

Lusacan chuckled and stood; as on an invisible queue, all the others did too, but there was one difference – the others, all others, Cassandra included, made for the door. The man with the sapphire blue eyes crossed the tile floor, took knee before her, and smiled.

'The Gods know all, but sometimes wish to hear truth from other lips,' he said, before disentangling her hands from each other, and kissing her right fingers. 'If not in the Empire of Lions, nor in the Country of Fierce Dogs we are to meet your Maker's Bride, then, where are to meet her?'

'In Starkheaven,' Vivienne whispered, without herself. 'Where she is safe, surrounded by her faith…No armed Tevinter protection shall be allowed…'

Lusacan pursed his lips in amusement, once more delicately kissed the hand she held out, then stood.

'None will be needed,' he said. 'At Madame's convenience, there we shall travel.'

* * *

Whatever it was about this man, the Grand Enchantress thought, some things that she had heard about him were clearly true – he had an…aura about him, one that he seemed to be able to control at will. His presence, that had been so soothing in Val Royaux, and brought unexpected and brief respite to the entire city, had been equally soothing when travelling though the Eluvians.

She'd ridden by his side, as Cassandra, Josephine and Dorian had, with Briala, Veldrin and Varric riding slightly ahead. Still, the human company had been more than able to keep pace with the elves, and none had been riddled with nausea or fatigue, as when they had previously travelled though the mirrors. Perhaps it was magic of a nature Vivienne did not recognise, or his mere proximity…

The mystery was clarified as soon as all emerged though the eluvian that some unknown elves had placed on the northern borders of Starkheaven, when the thin veil's sickness returned with a vengeance. 'Twas true, Vivienne thought, one did not appreciate good health until one lost it, and a mere few hours of feeling normal once more had all but made her forget how truly ill all had felt over the past year.

'Lord Watcher,' the Magister had said, 'do you think you could, possibly…'

'For your sake, and the sake of the other humans in our midst, Dawnbringer,' Lusacan had pleasantly replied, 'I would. Yet I cannot contain my protections to us alone, and thus…'

'…and thus you would prefer for Starkheaven to keep wondering why their revered prophet has not eased their plague,' Dorian had replied, with a little smirk.

'Ever the delicate flower, Dorian, darling?' Vivienne had asked, finding a bit of wicked, and granted, a bit unfitting joy in the Magister's predicament.

'Forgive me for saying this, Vivienne,' Varric had ironically said, 'given the fact that Josephine has mysteriously disappeared into the bushes, thinking we cannot hear her heave, and not even Cassie is looking quite as peachy as usual…'

'I warn you, dwarf!' Cassandra had muttered.

'I was merely paying you a compliment,' Varric had shrugged, 'and pointing out that Sparkler is not the only delicate flower around. _None_ of you is looking peachy.'

'Yet, Lord Watcher,' Vivienne had said, 'you did not have similar reservations in granting Val Royaux some…protections.'

Lusacan smiled. 'Indeed so, Madame,' he'd responded, with a small inclination of his head, 'but the Lion's Empire has not yet threatened _my_ realm, and besides, I doubt that any women of your beauty, grace and wit reside in the city ahead.'

'Oh,' Vivienne had responded, before she could stop herself, 'but there might be _some…'_

'I very much doubt any is comparable,' the blue-eyed man had replied.

Josephine reappeared, looking yellow and downtrodden, but nonetheless managing to mount once more.

'Josie!' Dorian had snickered. 'Just in time to rescue Vivienne from blushing in public!'

'I was about to do no such thing!' Vivienne had protested, her cheeks in high flames.

''Course not,' Varric had laughed.

'Let's move, before we give the insufferable one any book ideas,' Cassandra had dryly said; she'd decisively prodded her mount forth, but there was a grin in the corner of her lips, too, and for a moment, the Grand Enchanter had hated them all, and barely fought off the urge to tell them they all needed to bathe.

Oddly enough, it was Lusacan, and not Varric that rode ahead of them, showing them the path, as if he had navigated it a thousand times over; they could smell the city that lay before they could actually see its walls from amid the foliage, and Josephine had once more jumped off her horse and disappeared into the bushes.

To the humans' heightened senses, the stench was truly overwhelming.

'Maker's breath,' Vivienne had said, 'this place _reeks_.'

'I thought you were from the Free Marches,' Veldrin said.

The Grand Enchanter gave her a withering stare.

'I was born here, darling. I left as a child, and never returned – I think I fully understand why, now; I did hear that Kirkwall is not the most pleasant place to be, yet…'

Varric sighed. 'Out with it, Sparkler, you know you're going to say it…'

'Of course I was going to say it,' Dorian chuckled, the sound muffled under the lacey, perfumed handkerchief he was holding over his nose and mouth. 'Kirkwall may be a shit hole, but it is one with proper sewage canals – do we know why?'

'Because the Imperium build it,' the dwarf answered, rolling his eyes. 'Yes, yes…'

'Josie,' Cassandra shouted, 'you haven't eaten anything near as much as you are throwing up, can we move on?'

'In a mome…'

She gurgled heavily before she could finish, so Cassandra let her shoulders slump.

Briala beheld them all with superior annoyance, and closed in on Varric.

'What can we expect in there?' she asked, tilting her head towards the city.

'Stench's the best part of it,' the dwarf helplessly shrugged. 'The…Enlightened Prince Vael has been warned of our arrival; I assume half his armies are waiting for us at the gates. He's already displeased by the make-up of our charming little group – though I think Ruffles tried to soften his mood by writing we were all coming to pay homage to the Maker's Bride…'

'I doubt he was fooled,' Josephine said, weakly; she mounted again, and Dorian lent her his handkerchief with a kindly smile. She gratefully nodded before following: 'I have tried to get someone from Ferelden to join us, yet…they did not even bother being polite,' she added, sounding heartbroken. 'We should have coordinated, Marquise. With the restoration of Grand Duke Gaspard, the Thereins believe Orlais will use any chaos across the realm to invade.'

Briala shrugged, then answered, with an apologetic undertone. 'Her Radiance needed her country united, Ambassador Montilyet. Indeed, whatever chaos sweeps the realm, she needs full command and loyalty of the Chevaliers.'

'Irrelevant now in any event,' Cassandra said, and Veldrin quietly nodded. 'Let's get this over with.'

They all took to the path once more, and soon, the city walls of Starkheaven were in sight; they were impressive in themselves, but the towers of the Chantry surpassed them in height, and shone blindingly in the late afternoon sun. Briefly, Vivienne wondered whether the Starkheaven Chantry surpassed the one that hosted the Sunburst throne – her thoughts were irreverently interrupted by Varric's half admirative, half ironic whistle.

'He sure didn't spare any expenses,' the dwarf said, making Veldrin frown.

'What do you mean?' she asked, pulling to a halt.

'Those towers weren't gilded, last I saw them, but a month past,' the dwarf replied with a shrug. 'I guess the Maker's Bride has expensive tastes.'

'And Vael has deep pockets,' Cassandra said.

'…fool and his money…' Lusacan indifferently said. 'Should we set up camp?'

'So close to the city walls?' Veldrin inquired, arching an eyebrow. 'I'd rather we spent the night at an inn somewhere. Who knows, we might get lucky and have the honour of emptying our chamber pots on the heads of half of Vael's armies…'

'Distasteful,' Vivienne mumbled. 'As expected, of course.'

Dorian shrugged in his wife's stead. 'We were getting the feeling you were missing Sera, thus…'

'This prophet of yours,' Lusacan indifferently said, 'is hidden from both myself and Lady Mystery; Sebastian Vael is not. If we do cross into the city before nightfall, we shall not be spending the night at an inn, but as _guests_ of the Prince. Meeting him will be inevitable, of course, but we can still control the length of time we spend in his company, and _your_ need to sleep under his roof.'

'I'd dare hope that he has not fully forgotten the principles of diplomatic immunity,' Josephine replied, with a frown.

'One can't forget what one never learned, Ruffles,' Varric acidly replied. 'Still, Lord Watcher,' the dwarf followed, 'does the Augur feel that he is a danger to us? Harming any of us would definitely not sit well with any of those he wishes to charm…so to speak.'

The blue eyed man shrugged, and looked to Vivienne with an unreadable expression.

'He has no intent of harming you before you meet your Maker's Bride; that does not mean that _another_ might not wish to thin the numbers of the doubters, in the still of night.' He replied. 'You, Child of the Stone, are in definite danger, and…Madame,' he added, looking to Vivienne with odd and sincere warmth, 'you too should think well whether you prefer the comfort of a bed to the dangers you might be facing.'

'If _she_ is so minded, _she_ will come for us wherever we are; as the delicate flower I am not ashamed to be, I too would prefer a bed.' Dorian said, just before the Grand Enchanter opened her mouth to say that she was hardly a defenceless damsel; Dorian's words left her in an odd limbo of curiosity and annoyance.

'We shall accept Prince Vael's hospitality, if such is offered,' she said, in a sweet, but decisive tone. 'The Maker's Bride is no assassin, nor does she stoop so low as to hire any.'

With that, she nudged her horse on, neither leaving the others time for contradiction, nor allowing herself pause to think too deeply on Lusacan's words. It took what felt like interminable moments for the others to follow – behind her, hasty words were exchanged, in Elvhen, then another unintelligible whisper passed between Veldrin and Josephine.

Still, the small convoy set in motion, with Cassandra and Josephine hastening their mounts to catch up with her and flank her; there was an odd formation to the company now, but it was definitely a wise one: the three believers, to the front; Briala and Varric, just behind them, with the three Tevinters closing ranks at the back.

Indeed, an impressive contingent of guards met them at the gates, not bothering with greetings. In fact, Vivienne thought, they seemed outright hostile, and openly sneered at the two elves – no business of hers, she considered, maintaining her serene front, yet fighting herself not to look over her shoulder to assess the guards' reaction to the blue eyed man.

'What did Veldrin say to you, just now, Josephine, darling?' she politely inquired, as the grand gates of Starkheaven began to part before them.

'To be wary of owls,' Josephine whispered, still sounding sickened and dazed.

The gates of Starkheaven opened to reveal a sea of spears and swords.

* * *

There was no other word one could employ to describe the Enlightened Prince of Starkheaven other than _sickly._ It was known, of course, that he was a severe and austere man, and, in truth, no human on the continent could boast an entirely natural rosy complexion. Still, the man looked ashen, and some twenty years older than his actual age – he looked, Vivienne thought, as one who had been preyed upon by parasitic spirits for a very long time.

Or it was perhaps natural for a man whose entire life was dedicated to the Chantry; Sebastian Vael kept all his vows, and while he showed his guests a modicum of hospitality by serving them with the best the land could provide – as little as that was – he himself dined on what looked like boiled oats, and drank only water.

 _Who knows_ , Vivienne thought, chewing patiently on an ill-cooked piece of unrecognisable meat, that had been nonetheless been described as lamb, _maybe he knows how sour his wine is, and is only glad to avoid it._

She nonetheless braved a sip; sour as the wine might have been, it was not as sour as the conversation.

'Your pretence fools us not,' had been his greeting to Josephine, as soon as his guests had been led to his dreary and poorly lit dining hall, along equally dreary and poorly lit corridors.

Though he had offered her a mock bow, his tone had been naught but impolite, bordering on aggressive, given their relative difference in size; Vael was an overly thin man, but he was still imposing in height.

To her credit, Josephine had smiled brightly and curtsied. 'With joy in our hearts, we come to witness the miracle…' the Antivan had begun, only to be cut off by a rude and rapid hand gesture.

'So you wrote, Ambassador,' Vael had all but growled. 'Let us say, for a moment, that we are soft in the head, and give you undue credence. What is _he_ here for?' he'd asked, whipping his arm towards Lusacan.

'Perhaps to acknowledge an equal,' Lusacan had smiled, in return – somehow, the reply and the effortlessly polite tone on which it had been uttered had given Sebastian Vael pause…and, Vivienne unpleasantly acknowledged, whatever this creature ultimately was, she truly _liked_ him, his easy manner, his open smile, his level voice…His restraint.

'No such thing you shall find, foulest of foul beasts,' Vael had said. 'The dregs of the Fade may in no way be compared, let alone find an equal, in the purest amid all creation! On mere sight, she will strike you from existence; nothing but ash will remain of your deceitful form…'

'Then we hope you have a rather large broom,' Lusacan had replied. 'Or even a normal one – judging by the cobwebs lining your walls, you may need to have one brought in post haste.'

'Uuh, burn,' Varric had whispered to Veldrin, who'd stifled a chuckle. 'Say, Vael,' he'd spoken up, 'I thought you invited us to dine, not to a mud slinging fest – if you've changed your mind, we can always find another abode, where the mud slinging is at least somewhat fun. Can one still play Wicked Grace in this city, or…'

'Games of chance are forbidden,' the Prince of Starkheaven had dryly replied. 'And don't you think I would let you – any of you – out of my sight before the Maiden of the Alamarr deigns to acknowledge your menial presences, 'pon the morrow.'

He'd spun on his heels, and taken his seat at the head of the table, then, gesturing for his _wards_ to seat wherever they pleased, and hence dashing any hopes that Vivienne might have held that the encounter might be at least polite, if not politely convivial.

The Grand Enchantress took another sip of the sour wine, chasing the thought that she was still chewing on the same piece of meat from her mind. Dorian Pavus, she considered, choosing to focus on the unpleasantly familiar, took to any kind of wine with great ease and was at least convivial, if not polite.

'So,' Dorian said, slurring slightly, 'let me get this…straight. Your princely logic dictates that my wife left your…friend? Lady friend? In any event, Hawke, back in the Fade to save the Grey Wardens, only to render the Grey Wardens useless a few years later by waking the uncorrupted Old Gods?'

'If that's the case, I hope princely logic is not catchy,' Varric had muttered; he'd forsaken all eating implements as useless – which they actually were, not that Vivienne might have admitted to it, upon pain of death – and was using his hands to munch on a bone, probably trying to get to any edible and not charred meat that might have remained on it.

'Impertinent,' Vael said, taking another spoonful of his boiled oats. 'Impertinent, all of you! It is a wonder the Maiden accepts to see you…'

'It is a wonder the Maiden shows herself not,' Veldrin said, in her most soothing tone – she was speaking to this man, this prince, like she might have been speaking to a toddler, and yet Vivienne thought her tone was, for once, appropriate. By the glow of the Enlightened Prince's eyes, he was but one hair away from flying into a rage.

'More wonder still that she does not deliver the lands of her rebirth with the Maker's blessed reprieve from the plague…' Vivienne said, forcing herself to swallow and smile.

'The plague brought upon this blessed realm by the unholy Herald the…the…whore!' Vael shouted, suddenly darting up to his feet. 'Whore of the destroyer, Tevinter's whore!'

'The whore you yourself proclaimed the Herald of Andraste,' Cassandra said – her temper looked like it was being held back by a hair as well. 'The whore _you_ too raised as Herald, when the world was crumbling about you.'

Unexpectedly, Veldrin laughed.

'With my limited knowledge of human language, I do think that a whore gives pleasure in exchange for money. A certain kind of pleasure, at least. I've brought the continent nothing of the kind, nor received compensation. I might, at most, be branded a slut.' The elf said, calmly, but with scathing irony.

'Maybe being a faithful servant of the Chantry makes the Enlightened Prince a bit confused on the actual meaning of the words,' Briala replied – the elves clinked their glasses against each others', and Dorian's, once he belatedly raised it.

'Enough!' Vael bellowed. 'You will all be escorted to your chambers. Now. It is unfitting for non-penitents such as yourself to stand before the Maker's Bride with bellies full and wine blurred eyes, when the city is eating only beets and roots, because of you all!'

Vivienne stood, gracefully folding her grey-ish, too oft washed napkin by the side of her wooden plate.

'It has been a privilege to dine in your court, Prince Vael. We are all, I am sure grateful for your hospitality, and look forward to be in the presence of the Maker's Bride. Eyes wide open, we shall see the Maker's light; humbling in itself is the fact that it is you, and none other, that might open our eyes to the true light.'

She looked to Lusacan, briefly, as she spoke. Lost in thought as he was, he did not even give her a glance.

'I was given a second chance by the Maker's voice,' Vael hissed. 'All are entitled to one. Mind you,' he reiterated, as all others stood, in turn, 'there is only one second chance.'

* * *

Well, I think you can tell ol' Sebastian Vael was not Abstract's fave character in DA:2. But I bet none of y'all thought it was Fenris...OK, OK, it was Anders. I am admitting to this under duress.

And stuff is getting on! we'll see how Andruil does an impression Andraste up next (in 2 chaps).

We love your reading and commenting, and we thank you for both,

Cheers, Abstract & IVI


	57. The Blinding Light

_Maferath's heart grew cold_

 _As he looked upon the field of the dead and heard_

 _The chant of "Glory! Glory! Glory! Hail to the Maker!''_

 ** _Apotheosis 1: 6-8_**

* * *

Upon the hour of the wolf's hungry howl, Vivienne de Fer awoke, famished and thirsty. She first sought the familiar bell chain, which might have summoned her maid to bring forth tea with scones, but, in the dark, there was none.

She shifted upon the mattress, which was made of stale straw and smelled as such, then reached out further, only to note that icy needles pierced her skin, for the two logs she had been allotted were spent, and not even their ashes were smouldering. It was dark, it was cold, and Vivienne could barely stop her feet from shaking before she blindly placed them inside the warm slippers she'd carried all the way from Orlais.

Vivienne also reached for a candle in blind, but she found none, as none had been provided; there was neither flint, nor match, just darkness and cold. And a jug of water.

Thinking that the water might have appeased her thirst after the preserved mutton paraded as lamb, and the terrible, sour wine, she gulped from it, only to discover that there was a rather thick film of dust layered upon dust on its surface.

'Merde,' she hissed to herself, putting the carafe aside, and decisively standing in her woollen slippers.

In the dark, she made her way onwards, to the corridor, thinking that she would do what she had never before done – go to the kitchens of this hellish place and ask for warm, edible food, a glass of wine, and some more logs to her fireplace. She was, after all, the Grand Enchanter of Orlais and Ferelden, by the grace of Andraste, and she'd have no hesitation in telling the guards stationed outside her door as much.

There were no guards outside her door.

Darkness, damp and cold were her guardians, and those she could not argue with, only struggle against; she turned a corner, shivering.

'You wanted me here,' Vivienne heard Veldrin say.

She immediately withdrew.

'Herald…' an unknown man's voice whispered.

'She is not the Herald of Andraste,' Vivienne heard, in Dorian's voice. 'Veldrin is not…Oh, good Gods, call her what you wish to call her, but tell us what you wished to tell us, and do so fast. My toes are freezing.'

The unknown man fidgeted; Vivienne could tell by the creaking of his armour. 'My former commander, yeah? Rylan Ostwyn?'

Vivienne peeked behind the corner just in time to see Veldrin offering the Starkheaven man a nerve settling drink of her flask. In that flash of moonlight, she saw the Inquisitor she'd once trusted and not the Magistra she hated, and, for a moment, stood transfixed.

'Your commander, he was demoted?' Veldrin kindly asked.

'No, Hera…m'am. He be dead, m'am.' The man responded, holding on to the flask for dear life. 'Just like everyone from the kitchen maid to the Holy Mother that took in that elf is…Maker, I will die ablaze, like all who set eyes 'pon her did…'

'Your drink is my drink,' Dorian encouraged – not that the man needed much to spill from his tongue such a tale as Vivienne had never heard.

'From the ashes of the first Chantry that took her in she rose, nak'd and proud as an angel,' the man mumbled, 'the Maker's Bride, untouched by the Maker's flame, that took 'em all to give birth to her, the Maiden…only…Herald, forgi'me, mistress,' the man chocked out. 'Magistra….Magistra, they tell us it means teacher in the old tongue, Magister o' Magistra. Be that true?'

'It is,' Dorian said, kindly.

'Teachers don't care for being taught. Nay,' the man said, taking a vigorous swig of the bottle. 'You care not for what…Hells! May I burn in them! If this woman is…why'd she slit his throat?'

'Whose throat?' Veldrin asked, stubbornly remaining the Inquisitor.

'C'mmander Ostwyn that's who, fuckin' stupid head of mine!' the guard exclaimed, hitting himself over the head with the flask and his iron gauntlet. 'Don't you's see? All's eyes were on the Maker's Bride, but we were _his men,_ we looked about, so we did…Everyone in that Church burned a'life, bones clustered by the door... Ostwyn had his throat split in the kitchens, only one who did not fall to flame. He was dead 'fore the flame touch him, the gash in his throat wide enough to...Flame musta widened it too, but… An' the elf, the bleeding elf…'

'Was nowhere to be found,' Veldrin said, drawing a sharp breath, between her tightly clenched teeth; he nodded.

'Ostwyn may have 'ad his faults, Maker forgive him; first rumours were he ran off with the elf, but…We didn't believe it, no m'am, so we went and looked and saw things…There were no elf's bones in the pile huddled by the door – smaller, frailer they be, teeth flat…We looked to all dem skulls, m'am…'

He closed his eyes tightly, and shook his head.

'…an' then, all them men who was with me, they started vanishing too, one a'ter the other…They didn't go running of with no elf, neithers, but gone they were…Till there was only me left, cuz I kept my trap shut, see? Until now, Herald…Maybe now it's too late for me too…'

Vivienne felt lost, much as the man who'd spoken the words did.

'Why did she spare him the fire, but not death?' the man asked, of the ceiling and of the flask.

'I cannot know,' Veldrin softly said, touching the man's arm, and lowering it, before he could empty the flask down his throat. 'Stay safe, my good man,' she followed. 'Your secret is in good hands.'

He nodded sheepishly, and waded off into the darkness of the corridor, forgetting to return the flask.

'Heard enough, Bria?' Dorian called; Marquise Briala appeared from the next turn of the corridor. Vivienne ducked behind her own corner, but, in shame, kept listening.

'I heard enough, but whether it is enough to convince Vivienne…'

'He won't repeat the story,' Varric decisively said, adding his voice to that of the others. 'He fought with the Inquisition in the Arbour Wilds, and I was lucky enough that he recognised me, then heard you were in town. Maybe knowing what he knew became too heavy to carry alone.'

'Or maybe he did not want to die not having spoken his piece,' Veldrin sighed. 'This is going…How do you put it, Amatus?'

'From the horrible to the obscene,' Dorian sighed, in his turn. 'Should we not wake the others? Cassandra at least should be forewarned.'

Veldrin hesitated. 'No,' she replied, at length. 'Let's not cause more commotion than we need to, in this wretched place, and give that unfortunate man at least a chance. I've a feeling that if that story gets to Vael's ears, he'll get him before _she_ does.'

 _She…she…who on Earth is she…_ Vivienne's mind churned.

'You're right,' Briala said. 'Our sources indicated Vael had become somewhat more of an oddity than usual, yet not quite to this extent – speaking of which, we should disperse; this corridor is suspiciously empty, which only makes me think that those watching us are very well hidden.'

'Agreed,' Varric said. 'Let's get some rest. Or well,' he reconsidered, mock joviality in his voice, 'as much rest as we can get with a dagger under our pillows.'

They all headed off in different directions, and Vivienne hastily withdrew in her turn; hunger and thirst forgotten, she quietly closed the door to her chamber, then rested her forehead upon the cool wood. She did not quite understand what she had just witnessed, but if it had been an act, it had been an exceptionally good one. Had she decided on such a ruse, she might have wanted to make sure more witnessed it…

It was only when she finally turned around that she noticed him – a dark, fine figure, with glowing, blue eyes – standing just behind her.

Another, lesser woman might have screamed, or at least gasped in fright, and pulled her chamber dress closer about herself, yet Madame de Fer was no _lesser_ woman. She straightened her shoulders, and gracefully walked around Lusacan, to sit on the bed, with her legs crossed.

'Your evening walk takes a strange path this eve, Monsieur,' Vivienne said; he smiled.

'While yours was interrupted too soon, Madame,' he replied.

'Dare I ask what the purpose of this visitation is?' the Grand Enchantress courteously inquired. 'It may not be the habit of Tevinter, but it is normally considered polite for a gentleman to obtain permission before entering a lady's chambers...'

Lusacan grinned wide, which only made Vivienne even more displeased with herself – he _was_ wickedly handsome, and under any other circumstance…

'I, alas, am still unused to asking permission to do anything, Madame. The very notion of it is alien to me; if I have caused you discomfort, I apologise sincerely. I am just here to inform you that I am pleased I am not the only one who enjoys _watching_.'

A lesser woman might have felt ashamed at being caught spying. Not Madame de Fer, though.

'Intriguing,' she responded, gracefully crossing her thin wrists upon her knees. 'I did not notice you in the corridor.'

'Nor did you notice me watching over you as you slept,' Lusacan smoothly returned.

She frowned. 'That is a gross invasion of privacy, monsieur.'

'A necessary one,' he indifferently replied, 'and one that I shall not apologise for. The Lady Patience…'

'Lady Patience?' Vivienne asked, the frown still hanging on her features.

'Veldrin Lavellan of the House Pavus,' Lusacan clarified. 'The one that you do not hold dear, but keep calling _darling_.'

'Hm,' the woman said, with a little, mocking grin. 'Quite a few titles she has amassed, our darling Veldrin. And, if I dare, monsieur, I am seeing a disturbing pattern: Lord Watcher, Lady Mystery, Lady Patience…Shall there be a Lord Dawnbringer, next?'

'In time,' the man replied – the certainty and levelness of his voice made her inwardly shudder.

'But,' Vivienne followed, struggling to act as if she had not heard him, 'I have interrupted you twice now, Monsieur. Lack of politeness on your part should not make me forget my own manners…You were about to tell me that the Lady Patience…'

She looked up at him, great golden eyes wide in expectation. Lusacan nodded, and once more flashed his wickedly handsome grin, but did not hurry to speak – instead, he strode to lean on the windowsill, legs crossed at the ankles, and arms crossed over his chest.

'The Lady Patience, our little sister,' he softly spoke, 'thinks you crucial for tomorrow's events – I hate to disabuse our little sister of that notion. She is not alone in thinking thus, yet not all those who think as she does are your friends, Madame; I intruded upon your privacy to assure you will be alive and well tomorrow.'

Vivienne laughed haughtily.

'I assure you I can defend myself against owls,' she said, with an icy grin. 'Besides, you do not seem to think that I am crucial for tomorrow, so I find your concern…shall, we say questionable?'

It was his turn to laugh. 'If Madame implies I merely like watching beautiful women sleep, then her assertion is correct,' Lusacan easily admitted. 'However, both you and I know that the timing is wrong, though I do sincerely hope we may share a moment; do not remain under the false impression that you do not carry significance in other ways. Many a man's fate will rest in your hands soon.'

'Just not tomorrow?' the Grand Enchantress inquired.

He shrugged, making her wonder whether she found his… _insouciance_ charming or merely aggravating.

'Unlike my younger friends,' Lusacan evenly spoke, 'I am _very_ educated on the subject of owls – this one in particular. You will not need any of your skills to see though _her_. She'll readily show herself, or we will make her do it.'

'Who is _she_?' Vivienne queried, unforgivably giving in to impatience and curiosity. 'All of you speak of her, but none mentions her name. Even Cassandra seems to be party to knowledge I do not have…'

She darted to her feet, not caring much for the fact that her night gown had come unfastened, revealing the much tighter, delicate night dress underneath.

'You will forgive me, Monsieur,' Vivienne angrily rasped, 'if I only choose to believe the things that I am told to a very small degree. If you yourself are what you claim to be, which, by now, is the only thing I do not doubt, who is to tell me that I am under no spell? That Divine Victoria is under no spell?'

He once more laughed, and it was definitely aggravating, this time.

'The only proof that I can offer that you are under no spell, Madame, is the fact that I am not under your lovely nightdress,' Lusacan said, the warm, sincere amusement in his voice somehow preventing her from becoming even angrier. This did not mean she was not angry still.

'You fancy you can do that?' Vivienne spat.

Lusacan looked her in the eyes, then slowly pressed his hand against the window pane; his flesh dissolved within the glass, and she could see it passing though, slowly, a fraction of an inch for every heartbeat. What Vivienne, the greatest mage the Circle of Montsimard had ever produced, could not see was any sign of a focus object, no matter how small or insignificant. But, as Lusacan's hand passed though the glass, she saw the bones, the sinews, the blood vessels, from fingertip to wrist to elbow, as if the man had been thinly slicing his flesh and showing her each part of it, until his arm was outside the window, fully, to the shoulder.

The touch upon her half-bared shoulder was tender, almost hot. He kneeled behind her, on the bed, for she could feel the indent in the mattress, and there were two of him, the one whose arm was though the glass, and the one behind her, and…

'Maker,' she breathed.

'I do whatever I fancy,' Lusacan whispered, in her ear, 'and fancy all I do, Madame.'

He vanished then, both from the windowsill and from behind her, only to reappear as one in front of the door.

'You want to know who _she_ is,' Lusacan said, still smiling. 'As penitence for touching you without your permission I shall tell you – _she_ is as great a threat to all your truths as I am. Rest you well.' He whispered before he vanished into thin air.

Vivienne did not rest well at all, even though once the creature was gone, the fireplace had come alight, with no logs to sustain the fire.

* * *

'Well, really,' Varric said, looking about himself in awe. 'Think she's going to switch the Sunburst throne from Val Royaux to _here_? Sure looks like it…'

'I know you haven't seen this much gold plating in your life, but don't whistle in church,' Dorian replied, 'else Vivienne will turn you into a newt, and I am sure you won't get better.'

Cassandra looked to them both through the corner of her eyes, thinking of some scathing words to utter. None came to mind, so she quickly gave up; Varric was Varric, and Dorian was Dorian, but they were both right. The Holy Chantry in Val Royaux looked like a beggar's hut compared to…this.

They had been ushered in by an impressive contingent of guards, who'd insisted that they keep in to the main thoroughfare, and that the Divine lead the procession – not that the others had any desire to do so. Vael himself had not accompanied them, perhaps because his distaste of them had not faded, or, more likely, because his latest construction project had not made him exceedingly popular.

Maker, enough gold had gone into every aspect of the building that Cassandra suspected the entire city might have been paved with it – even the joinery of the stained glass windows appeared to be made of gold, and there was no tapestry on which Andraste's hair was not embroidered in gold thread. For one who considered even the Val Royaux Chantry wasteful, this was an inexcusable display, given the fact that the city outside truly looked as if it had been recently plundered by some ravenous foreign army.

What made it all even more alarming was the fact that it all seemed brand new; granted, whomever had restored the building had exceptional knowledge of the Chant of Light and Andraste's life, and some small comfort could be derived from the fact that the Canticle of Shartan had been restored to its rightful place, as one of the many wall hangings depicted him receiving Andraste's sword.

Another sword was notably absent, however. There was no depiction of Andraste's martyrdom, and hence no depiction of Hessarian or the Blade of Mercy.

She wondered whether Dorian had noticed the detail, but felt reluctant to turn around and ask him, out loud. The guards that were keeping the door to the grand hall would certainly report on the fact that they were not waiting to be received in quiet meditation, and she did not wish to further irritate Vael.

How ironic it was, the Divine thought, looking about herself, that the trepidation she'd felt upon entering Tevinter and meeting Radonis had seemed like the worst feeling she'd ever had. This, whatever she was experiencing, was ten times worse…precisely because she should have been with reverence and joy, but instead, felt dread so intense that she was actually chilled to the bone.

'Hm,' Veldrin said. 'Do you notice something off?'

She was whispering to Dorian; all others but Vivienne stood some five feet behind her, still hovering by the door as if they'd been about to bolt out. Still, Cassandra was so tense that she heard them.

'Other than the fact that this place is even too gaudy for _my_ taste?' he whispered back.

'Or the fact that the Enlightened Prince thinks his gold is best spent on this shit, rather than making sure his people don't eat only beets and roots?' Varric mumbled.

'Beets _are_ roots,' Dorian academically corrected.

'No templars,' Vel said, dryly. 'That's what's off – there are no templars.'

'True,' Josephine shakily whispered. 'We have not seen any in…we have not seen _any.'_

'Maybe they are all in there, with the Most Holy,' Vivienne put in, reproachfully. 'We are not _all_ the most trustworthy of people.'

'There is no templar in there, with the _Most Holy_ ,' Lusacan replied; unlike the others, he'd not bothered to whisper, nor stand in one place; he'd in fact wondered about the antechamber as if he'd owned it and nothing impressed him, just as he had in Val Royaux.

'Your mage-killers are all in their homes, shivering and sweating in their beds – I presume that after all this display, there was as much gold to purchase lyrium as there was to purchase food other than root vegetables.'

He chuckled to himself.

'I would not worry about the mage killers, if I were you, though,' he added, indifferently examining one of the heavy tapestries, and rubbing its weave amid his fingers. 'For them and the soldiers, at least, gold and lyrium will soon and miraculously be found. The rest of the peasantry will have to subsist on roots for quite a while longer.'

Vivienne threw him a vile glance, but she did not comment, and neither did Cassandra – whether he was guessing or actually knew was irrelevant – the scenario he described was realistic enough and the one the Divine most feared; it also heightened her sense of dread, for the Maker's Bride would never have subjected her own men to the pain of withdrawal, nor the inhabitants of the city to famine…

'Maker,' she whispered. 'How long will she keep us waiting?'

'As long as she likes, I presume,' Lusacan responded, with the same irksome indifference. 'Or, as long as you let her…'

He cringed, and just as he did so, the two guards, whom, to Cassandra's eyes, had begun to resemble statues, moved aside, allowing them passage. She moved forth with her heart in her teeth, Vivienne and Josephine by her sides, the others following close behind.

The hall that lay behind the doors was even more splendid than the antechamber, and so long that one could not immediately see the woman sitting at its end, or distinguish her features. There were no wall hangings here: all the walls were painted, and, as the small group advanced, it felt as they were quite literally taking a stroll through the pages of the Chant. Still, the long hall may have boasted gilded mosaics, yet had no pews, and no other seats than the prophet's throne. It seemed as though Andraste was in no mood for sharing power, this time around.

Nor was she in the mood of showing herself to the masses, the Divine realised when the door behind them was sealed – not only closed, but actually sealed by a spell so strong that even Josephine felt it; the Ambassador looked over her shoulder, in brief fright.

Yet, there was nothing fearsome about the woman who occupied the throne, except, perhaps for the fact that she did have the exact likeness of all the paintings and tapestries – she wore her long, golden hair in a loose braid, and the resplendently white robes complimented her marble complexion and wide blue eyes. She was smaller of stature and slighter of build than Cassandra might have imagined, but that was to be expected – it had, after all been nine centuries since her martyrdom. Her likeness had been long lost in the statues of her time, and ever since then, humans had imagined her in various ways…

Which made the fact that all the paintings in this hall depicted this woman, and no other, even stranger.

'Our Divine,' Andraste said – her voice was melodious, and sweet, hardly befitting a woman who threatened war upon the entire continent. 'Our Grand Enchanter…And our Herald,' she added, with a small, indecipherable smile. 'All our creatures come to greet us, just as we prophesised.'

Drawn, as if her body had not been hers, Cassandra took a further step forth; she did not notice that Vivienne had extended her hand to stop her, nor that Veldrin had stayed precisely where she was. Josephine had stepped up by her side, hope shining in her eyes, and, for a moment, a mere moment, the Divine forgot all her doubts, and allowed herself to hope too.

There was an aura about this woman, a sense of kindness and peace; maybe, Cassandra thought, thinking to kneel in gratitude, all the things that she'd felt were out of place were Vael's doing. Maybe the threat was Vael's doing too, maybe…

'Most Holy,' she whispered, 'so many fears and doubts I've harboured…'

'All is forgiven,' Andraste kindly spoke, extending her hand. 'Come to me, and all things too shall be as they were.'

Awash with relief and reverence, the Divine did kneel. Her entire body was filled with such a sense of relaxation as she had never experienced. By her side, Josie had fallen to her knees too, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

'You have returned to us,' Josephine whispered. 'After so many centuries of darkness…'

'There will be light renewed,' the woman promised, standing from her throne and gracefully striding forth; she ran her fingers over both of their heads and moved towards the rest of the group. Josephine reached for Cassandra's hand in blind, and though she was not a woman given to such displays of emotion, the Divine took it.

It was a dream, a most beautiful dream…and just as all good dreams, it lasted but a heartbeat, as the gentle, soothing caress turned into a playful, irreverent tussle of Cassandra's hair, and the benevolent, luminous smile turned to an eerie, piercing chuckle.

'See you, my brother, how thirsty the land is for me?' she said, looking beyond the Divine and Josephine – to whom, Cassandra knew, but still desperately wished to deny. 'How easily even the forewarned yield to my sight? To my majesty?'

She strode forth, disgustingly letting her fingers run through the Divine's greying tresses.

'How many, even amid those who know the truth of your nature bent knee to you in such haste? With such faith?' the golden-haired woman ironically asked.

'It is not to you that they bent knee,' Lusacan replied, causing her to laugh, loudly and piercingly – behind she who was not Andraste, Cassandra and Josephine hastily stood, one, in fiery rage, the other, in open grief and terror.

'To who, then?' the false prophet asked, her chuckles receding to a wicked grin. 'See you another depicted here? Feel you a Maker within these walls? If ever he was here, my brother, he has long departed…Nay,' she followed, gracefully twirling amidst the still stunned group to briefly take a glance at each, before heading back to her throne, to sit upon it. 'I alone am here; it is to me that they kneel. It is to me that they will _all_ kneel…'

She leaned her head back, eyes closed in delight.

'Even you, _Anaris,_ ' she whispered. 'Just before you die.'

'Anaris…' Vivienne whispered, sounding transfixed – but not looking away from the woman on the throne; she re-opened her eyes and stared back at the Grand Enchanter, still grinning.

'I take it my brother has not properly introduced himself?' she asked, leaning forward. 'Nor me?'

'I thought I should leave you the pleasure,' Lusacan indifferently replied, crossing his arms over his chest. 'It will be the only one we shall allow you. This, I swear.'

He stepped forth, and Josephine covered her mouth with both hands; for a moment, Cassandra did not understand why. After all, she…

But no Cassandra suddenly remembered. Josephine didn't know. Varric didn't know, and Vivienne…Vivienne was not looking to Lusacan, though he'd shifted his ears to their true, pointy shape. Vivienne was staring ahead, behind Cassandra, all colour drained from her cheeks and lips, while Dorian and Veldrin, who knew all truths, stood together as stiff as statues, looking in the same direction as the Grand Enchanter was.

She didn't want to turn, yet just like on the night of Lusacan's awakening, she needed to know – she needed to see…Unlike on that night, however, the world began to turn before she did, for thin rivulets of blood had begun creeping along the tiles, and all colours in the room began to shift.

No longer did the paintings on the wall represent the words of the Chant, but vibrant scenes of hunts, in forests and grasslands, waterfalls tumbling over cliffs, and palaces the likes of which Cassandra had never seen before…some hovering in mid air, some with spires so tall that they pierced though the clouds…

No, Cassandra thought, not the clouds.

The Veil.

She spun on herself so hastily that she all but slipped in the puddle of blood that surrounded her feet. Instinctively, the Divine pulled Josephine to her chest and away from the sight of the throne, as she might have done to Leliana, if Leliana been forced to lay her eyes upon the _thing…the abomination…_ that sat on the throne.

'Maker, Maker…' Josephine was whispering, while hiding her forehead in Cassandra's shoulder; she was grasping the Divine's robes with both hands.

 _I'm already too late,_ Cassandra eerily thought. _She's seen it. Her…She's seen everything._

'Told you shit's weird,' Varric muttered. 'Sorry, I forgot to remind you of not doing any of the three 'P's, though.'

'And which are those?' Veldrin weakly asked.

'Piss, puke or pass out,' the dwarf said, dryly – and, for once in her life, Cassandra could not agree more.

The woman who sat on the throne was no chaste maiden in white robes, but a very tall, extremely well built Elvhen woman, clad in animal pelts. Her bare feet rested upon a massive bear's skin, a recent kill, one might have guessed, for she had not cleared out its head. Its pelt was still bleeding, and its eyes and tongue were rotting and spreading a sickening smell.

There was a grotesque and savage beauty in her appearance – in her raven, knee length tresses, the glorious, athletic proportions of her body…She was taller than any elf Cassandra had ever seen, and her copper hued skin was decorated with a intricate webbing of green and blue tattoos. She bore a _vallaslin,_ too, and asymmetrical markings on her face enhanced her features, while their colour just served to make her slanted, vibrantly green eyes stand out.

She revelled in the fact that all beheld her in awe – she stood, and it was then that they noticed two small rabbits were hanging from her hip. They still bleeding too.

Disgusted, Cassandra drew back to where all others stood, Josephine still clinging to her bloodstained robes…

 _Oh Maker, we've been kneeling in animal blood…_

She furiously shook her head, but the tall, savage elvhen woman, the Elvhen Goddess stubbornly remained there, standing on the dais in front of the throne.

 _Andruil._

Cassandra knew her name, so she spoke it, though she did so in a barely audible whisper.

Andruil smiled, and advanced a step, taking great delight in the fact that Lusacan was the only one who'd not drawn back in fear or disgust. All the others had, though.

'Andruil,' she repeated, her own name rolling softly, sensuously off her tongue. 'Yes…It is such pleasure to hear one's name from another's lips, after millennia of silence…Oh, and the smell of fear…' she followed, her nostrils flaring. 'Do you, non-people, realise that your fear reeks just as the fear of woodland beasts? Of course you don't,' she chuckled, advancing a little more, and setting her poisonous glance on Vivienne. 'You think your perfumes hide it…Why did you not warn this one, Anaris?' she asked, looking over her shoulder to the Watcher.

Lusacan shrugged. 'No need to. I counted that your hubris would surface immediately, and it did. Mystery…'

'Ah, yes, is she back from the dead, too.' Andruil laughed. 'Yes, Daren'thal might have predicted this, though I dare say her skills served you little; you walked into my trap, just as I had intended you too, and there is no return from here.'

And yes, Cassandra dazedly thought, from here, there was truly no return – she had mentally prepared herself to acknowledge Andruil as Andraste, if it would quell armed conflict, but there was no way in which she would do so now; the woman claiming Andraste's name was a monster. She spoke as one, she moved as one, and even her unnatural grace reminded the Divine of a great, merciless predator…could she, then, willingly deliver the innocent believers to its claws?

A maggot moved inside the slain bear's eye, wriggling itself out, then burrowing itself back.

'Even an apprentice mage worth his salt would see though you, creature,' Vivienne said, her voice steady under Andruil's ironic scrutiny. 'You have no hope…'

Andruil sighed, in theatrical boredom. 'Magic exists to serve man, but never to rule over him,' she said, smiling.

'In other words, what makes you think she will allow any mages near her?' Dorian hissed.

The Great Huntress threw her head back and laughed.

'Very perceptive of you…who _are_ you?' she asked, in earnest.

'The Bringer of Dawn,' Dorian replied, with courage that even Vivienne acknowledged by a nod. 'The One Who Woke the Sleepers.'

'So, another whose credibility is less than naught in the face of the true faith's army,' Andruil nodded, in mock sympathy.

She walked back to her throne, the hares on her hip dripping blood on the floor at each step, then lazily sat down, looking upon all those who stood before her with the satisfaction and anticipation of a glutton beholding a feast. She once more measured all, for what seemed like millennia, before her glance settled on Josephine, and she frowned in disgust, for the Antivan was still shaking from all her joints.

'Twas but a moment though – the thought that Josie was too menial a prey crossed Cassandra's mind as lightning might have.

'You keep as good a company as ever, Anaris,' Andruil nonetheless mused. 'Don't worry, little girl of fancy words and no authority,' she added towards Josephine, 'I've not brought you here to kill you…Merely to grind whatever power you thought you had into dust, and show you that resistance is futile.'

And she had certainly done _that_ , Cassandra's mind raced. They had all loudly declared they'd come to pay homage to the Maker's Bride – how would they now walk out of this chamber, and speak of who, of _what_ she truly was? Andruil's illusion might have been weak, but it was still powerful enough to take hold over non-mages…and even mages, the Divine bitterly thought, did not need to _see_ to believe.

In a sense, Vivienne was as powerless and trapped now as Cassandra herself was. Her turn as Grand Enchanter had not brought her the love of Thaedas' mages, and, in truth, it was all but impossible to imagine that the leader of the Circle who had condemned the mage rebellion a decade before would start a rebellion of her own.

'What do you want, Andruil?' Veldrin asked; the Great Huntress frowned, and for the first time, appeared to gather anger in her gaze.

'Come closer,' she snapped. 'Come closer, _Herald of Andraste,_ so I can see what Solas saw in you…'

Veldrin stepped forward, passing by Cassandra and leaving even Dorian behind. She seemed unphased by the blood at her feet, untouched by the sight, and as the two Elvhen women measured each other, in silence, the Divine yet again noted how strangely proportioned for an elf Andruil was, and how small and actually… _bland…_ Veldrin looked, in comparison to the Goddess.

Andruil clearly thought the same, for her beautiful features turned into a grimace of curious disgust; she looked over Veldrin's shoulder, to Lusacan.

'After me, this unremarkable little mite?' she asked of the Dragon God; Lusacan merely shook his head. 'How low you've all fallen…'

'Still waters run deep, whereas quick, roaring streams caused by mountain snow melts last but a spring,' Veldrin had replied, smiling. 'I am one, you, are the other thus, I shall repeat myself - what do you want?'

'It even speaks to me as if it was my equal!' Andruil exclaimed, in a shrill tone.

'She's not your equal,' Lusacan breezily responded. 'She's your superior, in more ways than one; I'd tell you in how many, but I doubt you can count that high.'

He stood away from the wall that he'd been indifferently leaning against, and stepped up to Veldrin's side.

'Answer the question, Andruil. Not even you would call us all here merely to gloat,' he evenly spoke. 'You sit upon a throne that is not yours, while myself and the Lady Patience…'

' _The Lady Patience?_ ' Andruil laughed, a glint of madness in her eyes. 'Are you insane, Anaris? Have you gotten into Daren'thal's herbs, perchance? This…ant…is not, cannot be one of _us_ ; she's barely fit to stand before me – she ought to kneel, you all ought to…'

She wanted to sound sure of herself, yet her voice failed her somehow. Cassandra could not have explained how – it was a mere feeling. Still, for the one moment she'd had it, it had been as if Andruil had sounded uncertain of herself just as she was demanding obedience.

The Huntress shook her head, in obvious anger, as if she too had realised her mistake.

'What do I want, you ask, follower of the dead and fellow of the forgotten?' she queried, looking down at Vel; it took Cassandra a moment to recall that Veldrin's vallaslin marked her as a one of Mythal's faithful. 'Only what is mine, and was denied me by treachery. This world,' she followed, carelessly gesturing towards the window and all that lay outside it, 'the one you falsely call Thaedas, was to be mine, and it shall be mine _._ '

'I think you may now safely whistle,' Dorian loudly said, speaking to Varric. 'We're _definitely_ no longer in church.'

Never had the Divine been more grateful for their irreverence; Varric did, indeed, whistle, and even the tension in Vivienne's shoulders eased slightly, though she did give the two a suitably scathing look.

'I shan't be mocked!' Andruil screamed, darting to her feet. 'Not by…'

'Well, then, don't say amusing things,' Dorian replied, 'such as - _this world will be mine!_ I don't think anyone present in this room has not killed at least one person who has spoken those words.'

'In my case, two,' Varric shrugged. 'Or the same guy, twice…I still count it as two.'

'What will you do when the others come?' Veldrin asked, untouched by her husband's attempt at levity – she attracted Andruil's furious gaze away from Dorian and Varric, and, as if by magic, the Huntress' mood turned from furious to madly amused. Sadly, Cassandra noted, it returned the tension to Vivienne's shoulders.

'The others?' Andruil inquired, smirking and swiftly passing from fury to chilling coyness. 'What others do you speak of?'

'The others like you,' Veldrin dryly responded. 'I think that you expect us to agree that this world will be yours, which, I assure you, will not be the case whatever name you hide and whomever else you may fool. Do you expect the rest of the Creators…'

The Great Huntress laughed, in a sensual, throaty voice. 'Is this how you stole Solas' ahem, eye, you hapless little thing? By praying for your Creators to come and save you? Ha! Didn't he at least tell you Mythal was dead? Didn't he tell you who _I_ was?'

'Your importance must have faded, over time, for he did not speak of you at all.' Vel answered, with a cheeky grin. 'Elghar'nan and Dirthamen, on the other hand…'

'They're dead,' Andruil snarled, baring her teeth and aggressively leaning forward. 'They're all dead, your precious Evanuris – I killed them, one after the other…'

'You must mistake us for Prince Vael, _Most Holy,'_ the Magistra hissed. 'All six of you, together, could not kill Mythal – oh yes,' Vel smiled, to Andruil's surprised face. 'She has been alive and free for all of these millennia, so how you'd have us think that you alone could slay the others is beyond me.'

'Is it really?' Andruil asked; she had an unsettling capacity for switching moods, for she had once more turned from fury to insane amusement in an eyeblink. 'I'd call it as believable as you having defeated Solas, yet, according to all, you have…My only curiosity is why you have not killed him, yet I presume that watching him squirm is a pleasure I would not have denied myself either.'

She once more leaned back in her throne, but instead of showing any satisfaction for the fact that Veldrin had paled, Andruil dreamily looked to the ceiling.

'Yes…' she whispered. 'I would not have denied myself; another denied me. Remember who that was, Anaris?' Andruil growled, her chin snapping straight. The gaze she directed to Lusacan was so filled with rage that Cassandra shuddered. 'But…nevermind, nevermind.' She followed, in a quiet voice, and rocking back and forth as if attempting to soothe herself. 'I'll have him soon enough…In fact,' she added, clarity returned to her gaze and command to her voice, 'I'll give you a small bargain, _brother.'_

'I'm listening,' Lusacan said, to the Divine's horror.

He crossed his arms over his chest and arched an eyebrow; still, he did not look as relaxed and indifferent as he had but a few minutes before, and he was watching Andruil with tense attention.

'I think I can safely assume you're not as fond of Solas as once you were?' the Huntress politely inquired.

'Not hard to guess,' Dorian muttered from somewhere behind.

'No,' Anaris calmly replied, not taking his unnaturally focussed sapphire glance off Andruil. 'I cannot say that I am. What is your wish?'

'Let's make amends for ills long past,' Andruil purred. 'He's still alive – give him to me, and I'll think your debt evenly settled. Give me this one,' she continued, gracefully gesturing towards Vel, 'and I may consider extending the same favour to our herb demented sister…'

Had it not been for a swift gesture of Vel's hand, all might have drawn weapons. The glance that had passed between the former Inquisitor and Lusacan had been too fast to be noticed from behind, and even if the Huntress took note of it, it caused her no alarm.

'Interesting,' Lusacan said, taking a slow step forward. 'And what might this favour consist of?'

'I won't hunt you once I am done with the rest.' She said, her features once more twisting into a mask of feral fury. 'No promises if you happen across my path, though…'

'That is indeed a _very_ small bargain,' the Dragon God replied, smiling. 'But let us entertain it for a moment…I see why you want Solas, though I scarcely think that he is in the mood or condition to service you in bed for a year and a day, at present.'

'Wha…' Varric began, his lower jaw hanging slack. 'The hell?'

'Not now, dwarf,' Briala hissed; for some reason, Veldrin actually snorted in amusement, and Lusacan himself smiled, and gave the Elvhen Magistra a small wink before returning his freezing gaze to Andruil.

'Are you planning to make the same demands of the Lady Patience, or do you think holding a knife to her throat might improve Solas' _mood_?'

'Your daring grinds my nerves, Anaris,' Andruil angrily muttered. 'You have the choice of dying with the world of the non-people, or accepting me as your ruler. I do not think that you are in a position to refuse me, and that you know it. These husks of souls that you have around yourself gathered could do nothing to stop you from attacking me, and without Solas on your side, this time, I think we know who'd be the victor…'

'I've come to stop a war, not start one,' Lusacan said, his tone as icy as his dragon body's breath. 'Else, I would gladly end you _now_. As I might have, in times beyond remembrance, if Solas hadn't stopped me; it matters not. Ambition and jealousy blinded you, then. Now you are not only blinded, but unhinged as well...Come, little sister,' he said, decisively turning his back on the Huntress and her blood soaked throne, and gently caressing Veldrin's shoulder. 'Our discourse here is pointless.'

Veldrin turned with him, as did Dorian and Varric; Briala took the time to shake her head before turning around as well – Cassandra could not move, not yet…or at least not until, with grim determination, Josephine finally managed to stand away from the Divine's robes and walk away in turn. She slipped once, for her fine leather shoes were still soft soled and bloodied, but she then followed the others.

Vivienne, the woman made of iron, turned and walked away too, chin high, shoulders straight, all the ugliness of the scene seemingly leaving her untouched.

'Nobody turns their back on me!' Andruil screamed, stomping her foot on the dead bear's head, and crumbling the tick skull to pieces. Maggots crawled out, in fright; flies buzzed, yet none cared, and none turned around to once more face her. The Divine alone stopped on the very threshold of the doorway, for a moment longer.

'How many, do you think,' the Divine asked, 'will follow you, when you are all knee deep in blood?'

'More than will follow you, once you walk out,' Andruil answered, in a low snarl.

'Perhaps,' Cassandra said. 'Perhaps.'

The Huntress smiled, and somehow, the world once shifted to white and gold; the Elvhen woman was no more. The golden haired Maiden was now standing in her wake. No more bears, animal skins or small, bleeding hares; no more blood on the mosaics of the floor.

The woman who was not Andraste cradled her knees to her chest, crumbling her frame on the throne – a small frail person, once more betrayed, once more denounced. Once more, about to be martyred.

'See you, Sister Nightingale?' she plaintively asked, of the empty chamber. 'How easily the trickery, the deceit…'

'I see,' Leliana said, insinuating herself from behind the throne, and kneeling by its left hand side. 'I see all that you show me, Most Holy. Blessed are the keepers of truth, the lights in the darkness…'

It was only then that Cassandra Penthaghast, Divine Victoria, stepped out of the chamber, and away from the scene. Decorum stiffly maintained inside the Chantry, she nonetheless staggered once she had left it, and stepped onto the muddy street. Varric caught her before she could fall to her knees, and dirty her robes even further.

* * *

...and here we see what happens when a Protestant tries to impersonate the Pope. If protestant ministers were all insane, of course; Andruil might have learned the language, but she does a good job of being precisely what Andraste was not, though with her captive audience, she has no reason to give a damn.

There is something else odd about her, too...Isn't there?

Hefty chapter, but we could not break it up; at least we posted on a weekly cycle, which has not happened since our glory days!

Thank you for reading and commenting, and Solas being tied to a tree and asked to perform bed acrobatics is actually true Dalish myth. I bet Vel wishes she'd had that idea :P Might have spared us all some trouble...

Cheers,

Hope you enjoy,

Abstract & Ivi


	58. Gods and God Killers

The vision begins

The air itself rent asunder,

Spilling light unearthly from the

Waters of the Fade,

Opening as an eye to look

Upon the Realm of Opposition

In dire judgement.

 **Exaltations 1: 4-11**

* * *

'I think explanations are in order,' Vivienne said, crossing her elegant fingers in her lap.

She had not spoken a word as they'd been escorted out of the Chantry, and out of the city; she'd remained equally silent as the pathways of the Eluvians returned them to Val Royaux. But then, Veldrin thought, none of the others had spoken a word, either. Not even Varric.

They were now all sitting in Celene's private study, and though all efforts had been made to accommodate them, it was still slightly cramped for such a large company. Distractedly, she considered that the differences between the Imperium and Orlais were plainly laid out in the very architecture of their rulers' chambers, for Radonis' rooms – the Archon's rooms – had been built with the clear knowledge that Conciliarum would often visit them…

A reminder of the fact that although the Archon sat at the head of the table, Senate still ruled; chambers were not his own, but a public space to which some had immediate and unbarred access.

By contrast, Celene's receiving room was small; the Empress was not watched or checked, at least in theory. She granted _audiences_ to her subjects. There must have been, of course a Council room, but the difference between the private and the public Sovereign was palpable, and had probably been intended to show that true power in Orlais solely belonged to the Emperor or Empress.

And, whether that projection of power was true or not, on this day, it merely showed how lonely and burdened Her Radiance, Celene Valmont the First actually was.

'Agreed,' Celene said; she'd sounded neither haughty nor tired. 'Our fears are realised, I take it? The Enlightened Prince has not witnessed a true miracle?'

'Quite the opposite of one,' Briala evenly responded. 'And it is worse than we had anticipated…'

'Not only is she not Andraste,' Vivienne confirmed, a slither of weariness in her voice, 'but I believe she is quite powerful, and unfortunately, quite mad. Many explanations are owed, however,' she added, turning to Cassandra, and not Veldrin. 'How long have you known?' she stingingly asked. 'About who she _is_. About who they are?' she ended, casting an icy glare at Lusacan.

'Of who _they_ are, I've known since Lady Mystery's awakening,' Cassandra said, softly.

'The knowledge of the true nature of myself and my sister,' Lusacan spoke up, 'was withheld thus far so that it does not cause unrest in the Imperium. And you too will withhold it, Lion Empress, for the same reasons, as well as many others, particular to you alone.'

'Perhaps,' Celene politely said. 'Perhaps not – it wholly depends on the answers you provide, Monsieur…Lord Watcher, I understand?'

The Dragon God shrugged and nodded.

'We do not like being kept in the dark,' she followed, in the same impeccably polite tone, 'and we especially do not like being threatened. Inquisitor, for all the friendship and gratitude that tie us, we must admit we've found your words of late painful.' Celene added, shifting her glance to Veldrin. 'Our affection for you remains steady, yet, alas, we feel as though your good feelings towards us have somewhat waned.'

'Ar abelas,' Veldrin said, with a slight inclination of her head. 'It was not Your Radiance to call forth such a cold display, but Denerim. I… _we_ felt that if there was anyone who could keep Ferelden in check, and prevent that the blood of the remaining Elvhen on the continent be shed, once more, under false pretences, it would be you.'

'It could have been differently worded,' the Empress replied, 'but let us not think on this matter now…What was it that you saw, Madame de Fer?'

In a display of lack of self control such as Veldrin would never have never expected from Vivienne, the Grand Enchanter nervously ran her fingers over her cleanly shaved skull, and shook her head.

'An abomination, Your Radiance…' She replied, in a low whisper.

'Well,' Dorian interrupted, crossing his legs and dangling his glass between his fingers, 'she's not technically an abomination, as she is not possessed. Let's keep our vocabulary under control, Vivienne.'

Of all those present, he was the only one who'd partook of the laid out refreshments, and he seemed in a mood so foul that half a glass had made him renounce any sort of decorum.

'What would you call what we all saw, then, Dorian?' Vivienne shot back.

'The Great Huntress Andruil,' Veldrin replied, in her husband's stead. 'And, unfortunately, I think, a little more.'

Celene half nodded. 'Go on,' she prompted, keeping her eyes on the former Inquisitor; it was nonetheless Briala who tiredly spoke next.

'Our legends,' she thoughtfully began, 'give Andruil great skill with bow and arrow. They give her power over animals, and the ability to take their shape…It's not far fetched to think that she can shift into a human; the Lord Watcher here, projects himself in human form at will. But the power of the illusion that she inflicted on Prince Vael…'

She shook her head.

'It should not be within her remit,' the red-haired elf ended.

'Not only that,' Veldrin added, 'but its, hm, staying power is… _odd_.'

'Staying power?' Cassandra quietly inquired; Vivienne gave her a brief nod.

'Yes, your worship,' the Grand Enchanter confirmed. 'The room we met her – truly met her -in was no illusion; the illusion was what we saw when we first entered, which means that she has had an army of human builders and painters under her spell for a long time, and that they did not know what they were actually doing.'

She bit her lower lip.

'It is still quite weak, and its range is small, but…'

'Could you see though it, immediately?' the Empress asked.

'No,' Vivienne said, dryly. 'I doubt any of us could, Viscount Tethras aside,' she continued, gracefully tilting her head in Varric's direction. 'But I could still feel its magic – a simple dispel from any of the present mages would have revealed it, if she had not shattered it herself.'

'She should still not be able to do it,' Veldrin sighed. 'Andruil was no mage, and controlling the minds of humans...'

Lusacan rolled his eyes, and stood to fetch himself a glass.

'…is not impossible,' he said, in a cold tone. 'The reason why we chose dragons as our embodiments on our first rise was not that the human mind is too strong to control, but that human shape was useless to us, without our full powers. Our consciousness and voices could breach our prison's walls, and the wicked barrier you call a Veil, but our true energies could not.'

He poured himself a full crystal cup, then dreamily beheld the colour of the wine, and the sun's play within the rosy liquid before speaking again.

'Andruil comes,' he reluctantly followed, 'because Pride has weakened the veil; so did we. Our powers are not what they should be yet, because part of the barrier remains in place, but, in time, they will trickle through and both she and us will return to true strength.'

'So,' Celene concluded, thoughtfully, 'that might still mean that the Imperium has two extraordinary powers on its side, while the so-called prophet is alone. Surely, this could be ended before it spirals further out of our control?'

She stopped, when Cassandra sorrowfully shook her head.

'No, Your Radiance,' the Divine said softly, 'I dare say it cannot. None in living history has stood against the Chantry and won. Not even the Imperium, Dorian, and it is the Chantry we will be going against, because...'

'Because the Chantry controls both Mage Circles and Templars,' the Tevinter Magister said.

'And the common folk,' Briala completed, in a shaky voice. 'And none of us, not even you, _vhenan,'_ she followed, not caring about the fact that uttering the term of endearment caused Vivienne to cringe in alarm, 'can do that. Not fully, at least, but…'

Varric rolled his eyes. 'Partial, on that account, means it doesn't hold more water than a sieve,' the dwarf said, 'yes. I think we've all learnt that at some point or another. Hawke did her best to disarm the pending explosion in Kirkwall, but she failed, no matter how she tried. Even the fact that she had the majority of the city behind her did not prevent…Yeah,' he sighed, in defeat.

'So you think our voices assembled will make not an iota of difference, Viscount?' Celene asked, thoughtfully leaning her chin on her palm.

'No, Your Radiance,' the dwarf replied.

'All the crowned heads of the continent do not count as much as one Maker's Bride,' Vivienne said, dryly. 'And now,' she added, shifting her angry stare to Lusacan, 'all who sit in this room are compromised, in no small measure, thanks to you, Monsieur. If you had warned me of what we were about to face…'

The man looked over his shoulder, and smiled ironically. 'Madame herself said she is well prepared for owls. I did not wish to insult her more than I had, by my late night visitation…'

'Excuse me?' Varric and Cassandra asked, at the same time, one sounding as outraged as the other; Vivienne herself seemed on the very edge of a fit.

'I called it!' Dorian chuckled. 'We'll settle up later…'

'Excuse _me_ , darlings,' Vivienne muttered, 'but with all the world at stake, you two were betting on…'

'Neither of us could sleep, what with the world at stake and all, so…' Varric shrugged.

'Should we actually be discussing this, _now?'_ Celene inquired, sounding utterly disgusted. 'We have to commend you once again, Inquisitor; no small task it could have been keeping all these under, ah, steady guidance.'

'And this is not even all of them,' Veldrin replied. 'In any event, Vivienne, if we had told you what we suspected, from the beginning, you'd not have come to ascertain it – we're all unreliable, in your eyes.'

'But not in ours,' the Empress intervened. 'We've seen and heard too much of you, all of you, to understand that there is great capability within your oddities. If you had but once spoken to _us_ …'

'I believe Archon Radonis did, Your Radiance,' Vel softly spoke; Celene's only response was a icy and cutting glance, which was only rendered sharper by the eye slits of her mask, and more poignant by the fact that Vivienne was now literally radiating the heat of fire and brimstone.

It took two deep breaths for the Grand Enchanter to still herself and her fury. 'You knew as well, Your Radiance?' she politely inquired. 'Of the suspicions, of the web of lies?'

Celene surrendered by a nod. With a sigh, she reached behind her head, to undo the silk ribbon bindings of her mask; Briala swiftly stood to help, and, rid of her golden lion mask, the Empress looked human, utterly breakable, and, most of all, miserably alone.

'We were informed of the suspicions, yes,' she spoke.

Briala had placed her hand upon her sovereign's bare shoulder, after quietly laying the mask on the Empress' bureau.

'We,' Celene said, 'could not give them credence without your testimony, and, as we recall, you had suspicions of your own, Madame de Fer. Archon Radonis gave us assurances that there is a minor chance a war to end all wars would not come to pass; Her Worship, Divine Victoria was ready to acknowledge the Elvhen Goddess as Andraste so that we all might see peace, in our lifetimes. Now, after all you've seen, do you believe that peace is what the Great Huntress intends?'

'No,' Vivienne replied. 'Even if we all followed in the Divine's footsteps, put wisdom before truth and recognised her for what she is _not,_ war with the Imperium will become inevitable. They would never…'

'It is not _us_ that would never,' Lusacan interrupted, sitting back down. 'The suggestion that Andruil be recognised as Andraste was accepted and sustained by the Lady Mystery.'

Cassandra nodded, under Celene's surprised stare. 'It was, yes,' she quietly said.

'It is, therefore, not _us_ who cannot share.' The Dragon God coldly followed. 'Andruil was ever the ambitious one…'

'…ever?' Veldrin echoed, causing the Empress to frown – whatever Celene thought Lusacan was, Veldrin thought, she now at least believed in his personal power, and people in power were not to be interrupted.

Lusacan himself did not mind it, however, and gave the former Inquisitor a sly wink.

'I take it is our sister's wish that we impart some tales long past?' he asked, with a light-hearted smile.

'They will not leave this room, I think, and it would help us all to know what we are really facing,' Veldrin returned. 'All will come out sooner or later; we might as well control _how_ it comes out.'

'Been spending much time with Mae of late, Vel?' Varric wearily chuckled.

'Quite,' Dorian sighed.

'Very well then,' Lusacan said. 'It need not even be a long tale, and I am sure the Marquise can share the details I will leave out with the Lioness later…and it all starts, as oft things do, with a lovers' tiff.'

'I was actually waiting for this part,' the dwarf said, leaning slightly forward. 'Solas and Andruil…?'

He cast an uneasy glance at Veldrin, but the dark-haired elf merely shrugged. 'It is the stuff of quite hilarious Dalish legend,' she said, and Briala nodded. 'I should still like to hear the truth of it though…'

'Oh,' Celene said, looking up to her lover, 'is this the one about the halla hunt, the tying to the tree and the…er, other…what followed?'

'Indeed,' Lusacan laughed, 'though Dalish myth is, shall we say, fanciful, and to see the truth of the matter, we must go back to the root of said myth. I shall not start of how they came together in the first place, as it no longer matters; suffice to say that, in a different lifetime, Pride had different tastes. 'Tis the one thing that about him that time changed for the better,' he added, smiling at Veldrin.

She smiled uneasily in return.

'What matters is that that _he_ did care, or love, I should say,' the Watcher followed, his voice turning cold. 'But as I am sure the Lady Patience has painfully learned, he loved…not quite enough, while Andruil, I think, loved not at all. It was the one you call Dumat that first realised we were living Gods,' he continued, lightly. 'Though on the front of it, Andruil declared such things nonsense, she did not do it because she disliked the idea; she did it because she quite fancied it, yet not if it was shared, thus…'

'She wanted unchecked rule of the very heavens?' Celene inquired, frowning.

'Yes, Lion Empress,' Lusacan responded. 'Then and now; in this, she comes to us unchanged. Andruil is not wise, but she is wily – she knew she could not hunt the rest of us alone, so in Pride's ear she whispered…That all of us but she and he were vain, or powerless, or meaningless; of the world they could rule together, once all of us were gone, of how her strength and his wisdom made them fit to claim Godhood, together.'

'Solas would not…' Veldrin breathed.

'No, Lady Patience,' Lusacan agreed. 'He did love her, but his principles were closer to his heart than even she was, and once he had full proof of her ambition, he ended their bond. I'd not have learned of his reasons for doing so, save for the fact that he shed tears over having to part with her in cups we shared.'

'She didn't take being ditched that well, I gather,' Dorian remarked.

'No, she did not,' the Watcher once more agreed. 'Yet, spoken words cannot be unspoken. Pride suffered, licked his wounds, then, slowly, healed of her, while she, who had not loved, did not grieve, and could not heal – not from the loss of him, but of the fact that for once, maybe the first time, someone had turned their back on her. He had escaped her trap, and that she could not abide.'

'Pride is short sighted,' Lusacan whispered. 'He thought that with our divine council hung, there was no need for further action; things would stay as they were, all of us would deny our Godhood, as he had. In his own way, though to the end of time he would deny it, Pride had the world and all its mechanisms moving his way. He thought he'd won. He hadn't, for we were far from resigned…Yet, then, as now, it was not _us_ that balanced history off the edge of a cliff.'

'Still looking forward to the part with the tree,' Varric said. 'And what followed?'

'Me too,' Briala said, seating herself on the edge of Celene's desk. 'I do wonder how the Dalish distorted that one…'

'One cannot distort what one does not remember,' Lusacan said, in a conciliatory tone. 'Far more important events overshadowed that day, and to be fair, I do not know why it was even remembered at all…but, very well…not long after she had been, as you say in this world, _ditched,_ Andruil caught Solas on one of his long dreams. He had not planned on full _uthenara_ , none would, in the middle of a forest, but...'

'He'd hunted a deer of the kind you now call halla, roasted it, and gone to sleep by a stream,' the Dragon God followed, with a small shrug; it was, Veldrin thought, almost apologetic, and she could guess why. It all seemed so mundane, so…menial. The stuff of mortals, not the stuff of Gods. 'Whether she'd followed him, or simply caught the scent of blood, Andruil found him, sneakily took away his weapons, then woke him. No master at hand to hand combat, he was quickly overpowered…'

'And ended up tied to a tree?' Varric laughed, for the first time in genuine amusement. 'Not even I could make that up!'

'Ah,' Lusacan chuckled. 'If that is so, Child of the Stone, then what comes next should be more astonishing still: as payment for having hunted _her_ deer – though she alone thought forests and all that dwells within them were _her_ sole property – Andruil demanded that Solas serve her in a husbandly manner for a year and a day.'

'Alright,' the dwarf replied, jaw hanging slack. 'I could really not have made that up!'

'So far, so true to Dalish myth, though,' Veldrin softly said.

'Yes, little sister, but from here the tale spins otherwise; Solas reminded her that he no longer wanted her, and such a deal was out of sorts, while Andruil reminded him that he was tied to a tree, and if no agreement was reached, he would stay tied to it for all eternity.'

'The legends say that you, then, come to claim him as your own, as he had in some way wronged you,' Briala frowned.

'Yes, the Dark God Anaris, and all that,' Lusacan responded, with a disgusted smirk. 'Firstly, now that we have all crossed paths, I'll leave it up to you how _dark_ I am. But I did come; not to claim him, as he had wronged me in no way, aside for winning against me at checkers two months past, and collected on the bet though I was…eh, slightly in my cups. I came to help him, for I saw his distress. It remains true that I and Andruil came to blows; the fact that I did not defeat her, however is a lie - I did defeat her, easily so, in fact. It's also false that while we fought, Solas somehow freed himself from his bonds. He didn't, I untied him, and the only reason while she lives to this day was that _he_ begged me _not_ to kill her.'

'He still cared for her,' Veldrin whispered. 'There was no trickery, no shooting in the back, no coward's escape...'

'No,' the Watcher replied, dryly. 'All that, Andruil invented much later, after…'

'After Solas had done away with you, you were all Forgotten, and there was no one left who could challenge her version.' Dorian said, in a dour tone. Lusacan contented himself on a nod.

'What a petty _woman_ she must be,' Celene said, allowing herself a very un-royal smirk. 'After all these millennia, and these unholy claims she is making, her first thought is still taking vengeance for an ancient amorous debacle…'

Lusacan's chuckles and Veldrin's bitter smile surprised her, and she gracefully batted her eyelashes.

'That is not why she wants Solas, Your Radiance,' Dorian said, shaking his head.

'Whatever for, then?' Vivienne inquired. 'You've drained him of his powers – why else would she ask for the lover who jilted her and the woman who replaced her in his bed? Her Radiance is right; the sheer lack of decorum of the request is appalling…'

She frowned deeply, as Dorian, Lusacan and Veldrin shook their heads in unison. Briala, too, narrowed her eyes, in thought, and happened upon the truth before the Tevinters could speak it out loud.

'That's not why she wants them,' the Marquise said. 'Or rather,' she added, breathing in sharply, 'that's not _who_ she wants.'

'We are not following,' Celene said, frowning in her turn.

'She wants the only two people in the history of all peoples, ours and hers, who can open the Veil at will.' Dorian replied, smirking a little at Vivienne, as if he'd expected her to understand it all much sooner.

'But…we were led to understand that neither can still do that,' the Empress said, her expression turning threatening. 'Have we been misled in this? It would be most…distressing.'

Lusacan dismissively waved his fingers, causing a faint blush of fury to ascend to Celene's cheeks; it was still Dorian who spoke up.

'We've not misled you, Your Radiance,' he shrugged. 'Veldrin's mark is gone, and so are her veil manipulation abilities, while Solas' is now the equivalent of a spent ember. It has not escaped Andruil that it was Veldrin to have removed his powers, however, and if she knew how to do that…'

'…she might be entitled to think that the Inquisitor can reverse the process, as well,' Vivienne said, biting her lower lip.

'Not fully, though,' Lusacan picked up. 'She would not risk that, for a fully restored Pride, with the Lady Patience, myself and the Lady Mystery at her side would soon best her; my wager, mortals, is that she only wants Solas empowered to where he would further weaken this wicked Veil of yours. Then, she would kill them both…or well,' he swiftly retracted, with haste that made Veldrin and Dorian exchange a grin, 'do onto them as Pride did onto her.'

Varric let out a little grunt; he was a writer, in the end, Veldrin thought. The miswording had not slipped his ear. 'So…' he began, 'not to be impertinent, Lord Watcher, but…can _you,_ not you personally, of course, actually be killed?'

'Not in your sense of the word, no,' Lusacan replied, without even blinking.

'Yet you said that Solas stopped you from killing Andruil, which means you could have killed _her_.' The dwarf insisted. 'Thus if she is like you, godly and immortal…'

'It's not as you think, Varric,' Veldrin rushed, for she sensed Lusacan's anger rising. 'No one with the capacity for _uthenara_ that the first of the Elvhen possessed can be killed, in how _we_ understand death. Still, someone whose spirit is trapped in the beyond is just an inert body in ours. They're asleep, inactive. Technically, if you injure them to the point where they have to go to the beyond to heal, and keep their body in that injured state, they are forced to remain in the beyond. It is a kind of death, but not true death.'

'Just…incapacitation.' Dorian said. 'If the spirit of the dreamer is wilful enough, or still tethered enough to the unchanging world, it can, and will, return. If the body is fully destroyed, as it was in Mythal's case, they re-embody, but the essence of the energy remains.'

He breathed in deeply, and uneasily looked about himself.

'Solas told me,' he followed, in a voice no louder than a whisper, 'that Elvhen knew death, but not aging.'

'No lie was told there,' Lusacan agreed, standing to refill his cup, and thoughtfully glanced out the window once more. 'Immortality,' he said, 'is only what the spirit, the essence, the power within makes of it. No more, but certainly not less. Imagine dying of a long disease, the splitting pains of childbirth, bleeding in war or slowly losing to infection. Imagine _agony_ in the unchanging world, then slipping into the beyond, where all is perfect; each dreamer dreams their dream, and each spirit's world is shaped by their desires. If such a thing was given, would you to agony return? One would not even truly know if they had left the unchanging world behind; in the beyond, disease miraculously cures itself; you watch your child screaming in a midwife's arms, then live a dream beside them…The weak do not return from the beyond. Only the Gods do, for theirs is the responsibility to keep those who are unlike themselves from…'

'...wrecking history,' Veldrin softly concluded.

'Still,' Josephine weakly spoke up, 'if you could kill her then, why did you not do so now? With her dead, or even gone to this Elvhen long sleep, the illusion would fall apart. All could see what she truly is.'

'Sometimes, Josie, people only see what they wish to.' Cassandra sighed. 'I know how ill regarded I am by the Southern Chantry. The Northern Chantry exists in name only. Could you then swear that all the people who were told that Andraste is reborn would see anything else than the _Malefica Imperio_ having once more martyred her?'

'Now you even speak as one of them, your worship,' Vivienne poisonously returned.

'Yes, well, _Viv,_ ' Dorian snarled, 'knowing two words of Tevene – the most popular ones in the south, I might add - doesn't make Cassie's predicament any less true. I am unsure how you plan to tell all the illiterate southern peasants, or all the southern Chantry that they were had, unless you plan to have a walk-in tour of the room we were just in, with a viewing of Andruil's real body thrown in for good measure.'

'Even then,' Celene followed, massaging her temples, 'the poison has spread too far and seeped too deeply. The Chantry could say it is all a plant; killing her was never an option. Exposing her might be, but if she plans to stay put in Starkheaven, while rising the Chantry's forces to arms, we have no hope of that, either…Hence, war it is…'

'All mages could see though her,' Vivienne stubbornly said.

'Excuse me, Madame de Fer,' Dorian aggressively mumbled, 'what would _that_ accomplish? It's been your life's work to keep mages prisoners to the Chantry. The brainwashed ones in the Circle of Montsimmard, and even the rebellious Circles in Ferelden would not listen to you. Not even a snap of your perfect fingers would undo nine centuries of conditioning. Lest we forget, Enchanter Fiona does not bow to you, but she still bows to the Chantry itself.'

'Less stiffly, though,' Veldrin reminded.

'Doesn't matter, Vel,' the Magister smirked. 'You can't expect the populace, who is already plagued by untrained mages in their midst turning to abominations to believe a word out of a mage's mouth.'

He darted to his feet, all by spilling the remainder of his glass in the process.

'We're fucked and staying fucked.' He growled. 'Excuse me, Your Radiance,' Dorian belatedly added.

Celene pursed her lips, not at such language being used in her radiant presence, but in thought. She reluctantly nodded, then shifted her glance to Cassandra.

'Chantry recognition of her and Andraste might still buy us some room to breathe,' the Empress said; her tone was mournful. 'I know that such a falsity would trample your faith into dust, your worship, yet, if you can still even entertain the notion, it would allow us to lure her out of hiding, or even allow us to think how she might be destroyed.'

Cassandra lowered her glance to the floor. 'I can't do that, Your Radiance. And not,' she forced herself to follow, 'because of my faith. I am more compromised than any of you, for Andruil has someone by her side…someone I love and trust, someone the Chantry loves and trusts as much, if not more so than they do me, who would immediately undo my play. Leliana…'

'Leliana?' Veldrin asked, in open alarm; the Divine nodded, curtly.

'Somehow, Leliana witnessed all that we did but saw…something else. Even with the illusion by the wayside in what regarded the rest of us, Leliana was still ensnared. All that she saw is me, turning my back on the Maker's Bride. So I am dead to her,' Cassandra whispered, in a trembling voice. 'Of almost three decades of friendship, nothing remains.'

'I'm sorry, Cassie,' Veldrin whispered, in the deep, pained silence that followed. 'I am so sorry…'

'I am too,' Vivienne said – somehow, she'd managed to put a shred of compassion in her voice, 'but the fact that Leliana was in the room doesn't only mean that we can not play for time…It also means that we probably shouldn't…Isn't that so, Lord Watcher?' she asked, setting her narrowed eyes on Lusacan's turned back; his nod was so brief that it was barely perceptible.

'Why do you think that, Madame?' Celene asked, slightly leaning forward to cross her arms on the desk before her.

'Because a partial dispel of an illusion is almost unheard of,' the Enchanter gravely answered. 'And by what our Elvhen friends here have explained, the thing we face is a hunter, not a mage. She should not be capable of it.'

'True,' Briala thoughtfully replied, in turn. 'According to our legends, that should be the realm of Dirthamen…Creators, you don't think…? You do not think she actually…ate them all?' she breathed, turning to Veldrin.

'It would explain quite a few things, yes,' Vel sadly nodded. 'She's clearly not afraid of what might follow her though the Veil, and we've seen Solas did absorb Mythal's powers; why would Andruil not be capable of the same?'

'But Solas cannot use Mythal's abilities; she was also a shapeshifter, by Morrigan's accounts, and she was able to possess bodies and objects at will, to assure her return. We've not seen any sign of Solas being able to do that – if he could, he might have escaped your trap.' Josephine asked, a slither of hope in her voice.

Dorian shook his head.

'It's also a question of time, Josie. Solas had a decade. Andruil had millennia to adapt, and I think the only thing that still hinders her now is that she has returned, but the remnants of the Veil are not allowing her to restore her full, new powers fast enough.'

'Indeed,' the Lord Watcher said, still not turning away from the window. 'Even our powers have not returned completely, but our _other_ shapes give us the advantage of time to wait. Should Andruil come to manifest Dirthamen's or Sylaise's powers fully…Well,' he grinned, looking over his shoulder, 'she would not need mortal political manoeuvring, or the forces of this so-called Maker of yours to enlist armies and keep them enthralled.'

'Even worse, should she start manifesting Elghar'nan, good Gods,' Briala whispered.

Lusacan shrugged, but smiled. 'That would put you in…how would you say, Child of the Stone… quite a pickle?'

'I'm glad you still have a sense of humour, brother,' Veldrin muttered, only catching on to the fact that she'd actually called Lusacan her brother once all glances in the room had incredulously and reproachfully turned to her.

'Why wouldn't I, little sister? Nothing to make one feel more alive than a good challenge, and yes, if your thoughts wandered to it, immortality can get boring, should there no occasional snag along the path. Why do you all look at me thusly?' he queried in earnest confusion.

'Because we've all seen enough war to last us three lifetimes?' Cassandra shot back.

'War is in our natures, and thus inevitable, priestess of the misguided song.' He responded, still looking confused. 'Mortals,' he sighed.

'Yes, mortals,' Dorian ruefully grumbled. 'Which means that we do die, and we're rather not fond of the idea, nor, more importantly, of the idea of others dying because we've screwed things up, so…Besides, this will directly affect you, as well – even if she does not come to full strength before you do, you said the Gods' part in the weave of things is to keep history rolling, not dictate it. If you meant that, then we cannot allow so many deaths, even if you, eventually, win against her.'

'Your world still loses,' Lusacan nodded, now turning about in full. 'This is not the Gods' wish.'

'The bitch must be exposed,' Varric unexpectedly said. 'And fast.'

He leaned his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands.

'Declare for her, Cassie,' he added. 'Here, as well as in Tevinter.'

'That would be pointless; as I've said…' the Divine answered, shaking her head.

'It will buy Orlais time,' the dwarf quietly continued. 'If we want to save lives, then we must avoid the greatest states on the continent coming to blows; a Chantry proclamation for this woman, creature, whatever it is, will certainly give Orlais time to not engage Tevinter.'

Celene cranked her nose. 'This also makes our Empire a shield for Tevinter against Ferelden, Viscount Tethras. We are unsure we…'

'They won't be coming for you,' Varric grimly said; he straightened. 'They'll be coming for Kirkwall; Kirkwall will not declare for her, and we'll raise a stink about it, too.'

'Viscount Tethras…' Celene began, in a shocked tone, 'that's…'

'That's suicidal, Varric,' Veldrin concluded, her eyes wide and her heart full of gratitude and regret.

'What have we done that wasn't suicidal so far, Vel?' Varric bitterly laughed.

'Yes, Varric,' Cassandra spoke, in a voice that was not her own, 'but we've decided how much risk we are willing to shoulder for ourselves, not for entire cities. You can't just…'

'Yes, well, shit,' the dwarf shot back. 'Kirkwall is in the path of everything, anyway. Think about it, Cassie,' he said, with stifling kindness. 'Think of the maps. If the lunatics in Ferelden and Starkheaven decide to go to Minrathous, via Arlathan, we're in their way. And they're not going straight to Minrathous, even if Orlais joins the fray on the wrong side. As long as Andruil isn't all charged up, and the Imperium has Blue and Smokey on their side…'

'Blue and Smokey?' Lusacan questioned, in bewilderment.

'Yeah,' Varric shrugged. 'You and your other sister, the one who seems to like her herbs?'

'He's _very_ fond of nicknames,' Dorian clarified, in a low whisper, as the Dragon God's eyes threatened to fill with rage. 'Just means he likes you.'

Lusacan scowled, but remained silent for a moment, visibly calculating.

'You will get crushed as in a vice, Child of the Stone,' the Watcher said, at length.

'We have really high walls,' Varric shrugged. 'I'll reckon we'll last a month or so, though I'll have to ask Vel to give me back my port keys. We'll need those chains for more than decoration.'

Vel furiously shook her head. 'No, Varric, no. There are thirty thousand people in Kirkwall.'

'But no Chantry to fill their heads with garbage; a friend of mine once saw to that, thoroughly,' the dwarf said, with great determination. 'They're also thirty thousand people whose lives have been upturned, houses ransacked, and women ravaged by Starkheaven's troops. The city will stand with me. Vael's name is a curse in Kirkwall.'

'You will still be crushed, Viscount,' Celene said, in the tone of one who knew that they had just been given a great gift, but did not know whether to accept it. 'Twice in a decade has your city burned; your walls will not hold off the might of Starkheaven and Ferelden combined, and once they are inside the walls…'

Varric clenched his teeth.

'We need some artistic flair, Your Radiance,' he said, slightly tilting his head towards her. 'You know, like in a play where a smoke bomb goes off stage left, but the villain appears from stage right? You are yourself a patron of the arts.'

'We are, Viscount, but in the plays we watch, the knives are fake,' Celene returned.

'Not so, _vhenan,_ ' Briala said, eyes narrowed and jaws clenched. 'Remember the one where the character of one Empress lifted her skirts to let a dog and an elf have their way with her?'1

'I do,' Celene rasped, her clenched fists turning white.

'The knives might have been fake, but the meaning was not lost. That play started a civil war. I think Viscount Tethras wants the _Most Holy_ ,' the red haired elf venomously spat, 'to lift her skirts, this time.'

'If she takes Kirkwall, she will have the Free Marches and Ferelden,' Vivienne said. 'That's half the continent – Varric, darling, this gamble is, even for you, too much. The wager of your people's blood is not acceptable.'

The dwarf shook his head. 'If push comes to shove, I'll surrender.'

'Your head will soon be on a pike, then,' Lusacan said, arching an eyebrow. 'Your people will suffer as all conquered do; mayhaps she'll spare them, for the sake of image, yet if you fall to her, you won't be spared.'

'Maybe I will, if I bow low enough,' Varric replied. 'Maybe I won't, but I don't give a damn. If I've learned anything about people who want to rule more than their share of the world, they can't resist a good gloat; what's a good villain without a 'Bwhahahahaha'?'

'Varric, my friend, sorry to break it to you _now_ , but your writing's shit,' Dorian muttered.

'I beg to differ,' Varric mumbled, in return. 'On this occasion, it will be grandiose. After she has taken half the continent, Andraste will have to show herself to the masses, either in Kirkwall or Denerim. Give a speech, wave... She'll still have to lift her skirts. Appear in public, to an audience that she does not control. Which should give you a chance to strike.'

'And then what, Varric? Shocking turns of plot may work well in books or plays, yet…'

'I don't know what, then,' the dwarf helplessly shrugged. 'I and Cassie will only be buying you time - you guys will have to figure out the rest. You're the Gods and God-killers, right?'

Veldrin bit her lower lip to the blood, to hold back tears.

'I guess we are that, yes,' she whispered, looking to Lusacan.

He simply nodded, not returning her glance.

1 Reference to the Masked Empire, where Gaspard stages a play to show Celene as weak, just as she is trying to maintain peace in Halam'shiral, restore the Canticle of Shartan to the official Chant of Light, and keep the peace with Ferelden. Hence, her being, ahem, had by a dog (Ferelden) and obviously, an elf.

* * *

While a bit of an info dump, we hope makes the individual motivations of each character more recognisable and their actions, particularly Razzy and Lucy (as we call them), understandable in their own right without just being a service to the plot.


	59. Leliana's Song

_Then did I see the world spread before me,_

 _Sky-reaching mountains arrayed as a crown,_

 _Kingdoms like jewels, glistering gemstones_

 _Strung 'cross the earth as a necklace of pearl._

 _"All this is yours," spake the World-Maker._

 _"Join Me in heaven and sorrow no more."_

Andraste 1:12

* * *

It all should have given Leliana pause; it, in fact did, but not as much pause as it might have if she had not been living in pure, unadulterated mystical bliss, and complete, unquestioning reverence. She could not remember being so elated, not since her very first days in the Chantry.

Even then, however, the sensation of light growing within herself, even when she'd thought herself lost and too far removed from the Maker's path, had lasted only for a short while. The dream, the revelation of the Maker's mercy, had come to her in an instant, then, and though His warmth had had followed her since, allowing her to now see what not even Cassandra did, the past weeks at Andraste's side had felt as though she was living in a perpetual state of grace.

It was as if that first dream, that vision, was given to her every day, her spirit overwhelmed with joy, her heart refilled by His truths, her mind sharpened by His purpose.

How else might she have seen though all the fog of wicked lies that had begun to surround the Most Holy a mere week after the delegation that had so thoroughly insulted her had seemingly switched opinion? When, after such a short hiatus, letters of recognition for the Maker's Bride had begun pouring into Starkheaven from all the Chantries of the continent, and all crowned heads had bowed to Andraste – when even the Archon of Tevinter had hailed her re-birth?

Taken alone, the lines might have seemed innocent enough; it was between the lines that the poison lay, and Leliana saw it with such clarity as only the Maker could grant.

Tevinter recognised Andraste as the Maker's bride, Radonis wrote. He did not write, however, that he disavowed the false Gods – he merely provided assurances that the Northern Chantry, its temples and its worshippers would be protected by the Imperium's laws, that there would be no prosecution, no hindrance…

Therein, Leliana and Prince Vael agreed, lied the heretic's wily evil. His words meant no more than that the Chant would be a _tolerated_ religion, and were, in fact, as close to an insult as anything could possibly be.

'He writes this out of fear, not faith,' Vael had pointed out, tossing the parchment on the stern, wooden table before him; he sat on one end of it, and the Maker's Bride on the other. 'He knows that once the armies of the faithful rise…'

Leliana, who stood between them, had nodded, and sat her glance on Andraste's resplendent figure.

'Once before have your armies laid siege to their city, Most Holy, and but for treachery, they might have triumphed. The Maker's children will not see the truth until Minrathous is taken, the false Gods slain, the plague brought upon us by their revival, dispelled. You must not heed such words.'

The Nightingale had lowered her eyes, in sadness.

'Nor should you listen to the proclamations of the Southern Chantry,' she had whispered, the words still catching in her throat. 'To our face, they bow, to our backs…'

'What do you mean, my Bird of Song?' Andraste asked, her beautiful eyes narrowed, in attention.

Leliana had shaken her head in dismay. 'My networks throughout the South inform that the Divine's own recognition of your Holy status is seen as a political movement too, even by those closest to the Sunburst throne. For what is worse, the Circles of Magi are in an unpleasant and unpredictable flux.'

'Why so?' the prophet had inquired.

'I've not yet learned, Most Holy,' Leliana said, 'but I will, soon. I have great faith in Vivienne, though we have not always seen eye to eye, but Enchanter Fiona and the non-aligned circles are a different matter.'

'Of course,' Vael had nodded. 'They owe their lives and continued existence to the false Herald, and the lassitude of the puppet she holds up as Divine.'

'Are they so great in numbers that they could become a concern?' Andraste asked.

'No, Most Holy,' he Nightingale replied, 'but without their full-hearted assistance, the armies of Ferelden might be weakened.'

Andraste considered for a moment, then lowered her glance and smiled, serenely.

'Our first Exalted March was one of faith; 'tis with the Maker love that true victory lies. As many arms as we have, He shall duly strengthen with His presence…'

'And yours, Most Holy,' Vael had said, bowing his head in reverence – and all had been good and bright on that day, just because the Prophet herself had found such words as to lift her followers' spirits.

As days passed, however, some darkness had begun to rise, and a tinge of sorrow had begun to taint even Andraste's heart, for not all her wishes were heeded. Ferelden aside, no other nation had been willing to outright refute the pact that Tevinter had struck with the Elvhen city state, and Antiva had squarely declared in its favour.

Arlathan itself had sent no recognition to the Maker's Bride.

With each hour, and with each increasingly threatening letter that went unanswered, it was progressively obvious that Andraste had been forgotten by the people of her Champion, and that Tevinter's claws had well and truly stretched over the Elvhen people's hearts and minds. If that was so, Leliana reasoned, it was not at all unlikely that Arlathan would either keep to its pantheon, or worse, adopt Tevinter's gods.

The Prophet's desire of marching on the Elvhen first had thus seemed justified – she'd freed them from Tevinter's chains once before, and once again she'd do so, and then, united in their faith, elves and men would lay siege to Minrathous. Logistically and strategically too, Arlathan was the easiest to reach target, and the weakest link of all. A victory there would remove all causes for discord amid the Southern Kingdoms, cow Antiva and push Nevarra openly into the fold. Thus reinforced…

However, if Andraste had been saddened by Arlathan's stance, the fires of her ire had only been truly ignited once the letter from Kirkwall had finally arrived to Starkheaven.

Not only did not Viscount Tethras and the city he ruled not recognise the Maker's Bride. They outright called her a malicious, warmongering imposter, and declared they would never fall under her vile snares while they still drew breath.

Varric's words had sent Prince Vael into a fit of rage, more so because the foolish dwarf had sent his poisonously well penned letter to all the crowned heads of the continent. Andraste herself had been visibly furious, while Leliana…

Leliana had fought her disappointment, and struggled to keep clarity, for Varric had cleanly thrown an otherwise straightforward offensive into complete disarray: Starkheaven could no longer march on Arlathan now, not in full force. Such a move would leave the city vulnerable to a counter-invasion from the south, which, given the tone of the letter, was not even unlikely.

Kirkwall's resistance would also hinder Ferelden's progress north, both by land and sea, and for as reverent the Thereins were, they would think twice before dividing their forces – not with a still non-committal Orlais sharpening its spears to its west.

The Maker's Bride needed Orlais' Chevaliers to advance on the Minrathous from the south. She also needed the Orlesian, Nevarran and Antivan fleets to blockade the city from the east. A pact between Tevinter and the Qun was almost unthinkable, yet only fools disregarded the unexpected. The Qun might have felt safe from a continent divided; a continent standing together, under the Maker's flag was a different issue altogether...

If that had not been cause enough for worry, both Orlais and Ferelden's rulers now had openly hostile forces whispering in their ear; tainted Cassandra remained in Orlais, by Celene's side, while Varric Tethras was a close friend to King Alistair Therein. Both boded ill for the supporters of the faith, and Leliana could feel some dark plan hatching in the shadows, though of its nature she could not eloquently speak.

The world, it seemed, was eager to proclaim its faith, yet not so eager to fight for it, and Varric's position had just made the plans for a divine inspired Exalted March look like a house of cards that might have crumbled in the weakest breeze.

Such thoughts, as well as guilt for her own lack of faith haunted Leliana's nights. On one side, she knew all too well that Andraste had had naught but her small tribe and the Maker's love to rely on, when she had started her first conquest. On the other, not even her haze of adoration could hide the fact that then, the continent had been ripe for such an uprising – heaving under Tevinter's boot, fearful of the shadows of its dragons, and, more importantly, with only one mentionable centre of power.

Could the same momentum be built now, when so many stood to lose personal power amassed over generations? Leliana wondered each night, tossing and turning between her sheets. There was no doubt in her mind that Tevinter's false gods, the ones that had been so evil that even their own kin had shunned them, would eventually spread the influence over Thaedas, and that continent would once more bleed under their rule. Did the Southern monarchs not see this, in their futures? If so, why did they dither?

Trying to get Celene Valmont to make a solid promise of troops and ships had been like attempting to catch water in a sieve; she wrote much, but said nothing. Antiva was reluctantly neutral, and now, Kirkwall was openly hostile, while Nevarran enthusiasm had sounded both cautious and contrived.

 _Have you come back to us too soon, Most Holy?_ Leliana asked of the heavens. _Should the Maker have waited longer in pardoning our sins by sending you to us once more…waited until the world was ready for you…_

When such thoughts came, guilt overwhelmed her. Often, she left her bed to pray – surrender to his wisdom eased her heart, but not her thoughts, and so, sometimes, sleep remained illusive for hours. At other times, it came, but it was dark and dreamless, heavy and stifling… for days, then weeks, Leliana dreaded the night-time. With Kirkwall's open desertion, one more thing burdened her, and it was only when she finally brought herself to confess her doubts before Andraste herself that some form of peace of the soul returned.

One day, a week after Varric's unheard of affront had still failed to push the South into making any commitments, or take any decisive positions, the Nightingale brought herself to speak her questions out loud to Andraste. She started out by begging forgiveness for the frailty of her faith, but the Maiden did no more than hastily allay such fears.

'It is not only in my heart that the Maker resides,' the prophet had said, kindly. 'He lives within us all, my child – the vastness of his power is too small for even me to contain. Speak to me unhindered, advise me freely…'

So Leliana did, laying a case for a different plan, one that she knew Prince Vael would approve of. Andraste listened, head tilted to the side, and golden tresses spread over her shoulder. When the Nightingale fell silent, she too remined so for a few moments, her fingers radiating soothing energies.

'You speak wisdom,' Andraste responded at long length. 'For as much as it ails us, not even wars of faith can be with faith alone be fought.'

Relieved, Leliana nodded. 'Alas, Most Holy. I wish it were not so…Yet, an offensive on Kirkwall is truly our best first step. Arlathan has no strength to boast, and Antiva will not move on their behalf. Our north is safe, thus taking Kirkwall and securing our south before we move on the Elvhen is the safest course of action.'

'I see,' the Maiden nodded. 'We shan't have to ask much of our Ferelden allies, not enough, at least, to make them fear for their own safety. And when the Maker's children take the city, and we show ourselves merciful to their inhabitants, who have been led on this false path by their leader, the flickering doubts the others harbour shall be stifled.'

Andraste gracefully stood, steely determination on her pretty features. 'We must not tarry overlong, then,' she said. 'Bring Prince Vael, and let us start to plan outright.'

In her turn, Leliana darted to her feet and nodded, yet her rush towards the door of the Prophet's antechamber was interrupted by the blonde woman's sweet voice.

'Tell me, my Bird of Song,' she whispered, as if in a dream, 'do you believe that all Starkheaven's forces will be needed to take Kirkwall?'

'I am unsure, Most Holy,' Leliana said. 'The more men Prince Vael offers, the less Ferelden will think it is put upon, not to mention the faster we will take the city. A prolonged siege would not demonstrate mercy, it will just cause many more innocents to die…'

'Oh,' Andraste sadly said, 'that was never and is not now our wish. It is just that perhaps we could create some confusion between our foes, by setting some of our men on the path north, at the same time. At the very least we shall scout our path.'

Leliana brought herself to chuckle, in relief. It was, she thought, too easy to forget that the Maker's Bride had not been a meek preacher, but a warrior, fully raised and prepared, in her first coming. She would be the same now.

'If that is your wish, Most Holy,' Leliana said, 'I approve of your thoughts; I also have a path, that might, perhaps, add to yours…'

Andraste looked over her shoulder, eyes playfully narrowed. 'Go on, my child. Where does our Maker guide your thoughts?'

'To the Imperium,' Leliana swiftly answered. 'Under the shadow of their Gods, they seem so steady – what if we broke that shadow, and allowed light to come through? What if we told them that their dragons are no dragons, but mere elves?'

'If one so high in the unassailable city would lend us his ears,' the Maiden sighed, 'yet…we know no such man, Leliana, child.'

'I know of one,' the Nightingale confidently spoke.

'Do you, now?' the Maiden asked, turning around in full, with curiosity rising in her gaze; Leliana nodded, and the Maiden smiled. 'Then proceed as you wish; may you walk the Maker's path, and may our Chant of Light reach the right ears.'

Leliana nodded, bowed and departed – firstly to reach out to her agents in Minrathous, and then, to summon Prince Vael, as the Most Holy had requested. Left alone, in her illusion of a chamber, Andruil laughed out loud, and gripped the windowsill to glance outside, seeing far more than the city she was brewing – seeing the non-people she was shaping, seeing…a chance to laugh in her own voice.

'You never saw this coming, Daren'thal,' she hissed under her breath. 'You never saw _me…'_

'Coming?' the response came, from one of her door-guards.

Andruil fully spun about, clenching her teeth; the guard sustained her furious scrutiny with hazy, purple eyes.

Not his own eyes.

The Huntress was furious enough to concentrate her energies in such a way that nothing more than dust was left of the man. She felt fear, for a moment but then breathed in and out. Her chambers were swept and scrubbed, as whomever Daren'thal had reached had been swept and scrubbed from existence easily.

One man, the Huntress thought, was not an issue; cities and countries were, and she'd have those...She'd have them, sooner than any of them even dared to imagine.

On the very other edge of the continent, Razikale exhaled.

* * *

'Such a thing,' Abelas said, his arms crossed belligerently over his chest, 'is beyond the realm of the conceivable. No human troops shall be stationed inside Arlathan, or even on its borders.'

Veldrin and Dorian sighed as if they'd shared a set of lungs.

'You've heard what Lady Mystery told us; despite Varric's resistance, Andruil is still angling for you,' the Magister impatiently replied. 'Are you truly suicidal?'

'The better question, Dawnbringer, is why you allow this creature any authority,' Lusacan snappily retorted, making Dorian roll his eyes, and stop wondering when and how he'd gotten so accustomed to having living Gods over for tea, in the Pavus library.

'He is, for better or worse, the ruler of the city,' Dorian responded, with courage he would not have possessed a few months prior. 'Given that we have a signed treaty with them, stationing troops on their territory without his permission would be tantamount to an act of war.'

'The humans in Halam'shiral also offered a signed treaty,' Abelas stubbornly repeated. 'Once troops moved in, it was not more worth than the vellum it was scratched upon…'

'Oh, Gods, again with Halam'shiral,' Veldrin caustically uttered. 'That's dead and buried, Abelas – no wonder you keep stumbling on every rock across your path, _lethallin_. All you ever do is look over your shoulder.'

'Those who forget their past are doomed to repeat it, Keeper Lavellan,' the Sentinel dryly spoke. 'There is no treaty in this world or the next that could convince me a human troop stationed anywhere near us will not turn with the wind of war.'

'So you would rather chance the human troop that's coming for you head on?' Vel quipped. 'Do you even have walls left?' she angrily muttered, setting her cold coffee cup aside.

'We do,' Abelas answered, 'and you shan't mock your legacy…'

'She's not mocking her legacy, Sorrow,' Lusacan growled, in boredom. 'By this point, she's probably wondering why she fought so hard to let you all live, when you slap away every hand that might help you out of your mire.'

He shrugged, and extended his legs on Dorian's desk. 'Maybe you all do deserve to die.' Lusacan indifferently concluded.

'Lord Watcher, please…' Veldrin intervened, with a little displeased smirk. 'He's perhaps right to fear…'

'We,' Abelas all but growled, shifting his weight from foot to foot in front of the eluvian, and looking more and more as if he were about to walk through it in a huff, 'are not _afraid._ You, on the other hand, fail to consider my position: yes, Arlathan's defences might be weak, but at least the city has found some form of peace. Do you, for one moment, think that I can chance unrest inside the walls, as well as outside them? We have already given you a third of our host, tearing our very flesh. How do you think my people will react, if I allow ten Tevinter phalanxes inside our gates?'

Veldrin grimaced, and scratched the back of her head. 'He does have a shadow of a point there, Dorian. If the Imperium's troops start pouring in, _the people_ will think we've sold them all outright.'

The Magister groaned in dismay. 'Yes, Amata, but the alternative is that he defends the city with an army made of fifty Sentinels and two hundred Dalish archers...'

'…or he bows to Andruil, lets her get whatever she thinks that she can get from the city, and though this time, he knows his head will adorn the walls, he indirectly follows through with Pride's plan. I hope that none imagined that Andruil would let the Shem survive this, did you?' Lusacan asked, straightening slightly. 'She is as keen on the _non-people_ as Solas ever was.'

Abelas audibly gritted his teeth, but did not answer, while Veldrin breathed in and out slowly, trying to still her temper.

'Is that what you are thinking of doing?' she tonelessly asked. 'Abelas?'

'Perhaps he's not thinking of _that_ , specifically,' Dorian acidly replied, in the stubbornly silent Sentinel's stead. 'Perhaps he's thinking of reversing the wheels of time, and hopes that it will be the humans who are enslaved, this time around…'

The Sentinel measured all three with cold, golden eyes.

'I am thinking of neither,' he icily said, turning about and leaving, as he had been on the verge of doing since the moment he had arrived.

Veldrin covered her face in her hands.

'Well, shit,' she whispered – Lusacan's chuckles startled her.

'I wager you are now wondering why you let _him_ live,' he maliciously said; his voice then unexpectedly softened. 'No, little sister, little brother, he is not thinking to do any of those things, and I don't need Mystery's voice to know it. Be at ease.'

'Ehh,' Dorian muttered, hoisting himself up from his armchair, and pouring himself a _real_ drink. 'It's five o'clock somewhere,' he shrugged, to Vel's slight frown. 'What is he thinking, then, Lord Watcher?'

Lusacan straightened fully, and though one embodiment of himself remained behind Dorian's desk, another slowly shuffled to the drinks trey, and filled a cup, in turn.

'Abelas is not Solas,' the Watcher simply said. 'He is too honourable to betray, but he is equally too cowardly to ask for the protection he knows he truly needs.'

Seamlessly, the projection that carried the filled glass returned to the one which sat at the desk, and seated itself on top of it, one contour seamlessly melting into the other.

'Yours?' Veldrin asked; Lusacan silently nodded.

'To his mind, he has conceded enough to the humans already,' he continued, at long length. 'If humans – worse, Tevinter humans come to his city's aid, if the spilled blood of the Shem mingles with Elvhen blood, even if it is simply seeping into the ground…If Shem and Elvhen bones dry in the sun together, on the same side of any battle, he will have lost his world, or the idea of his world. Forever, this time.'

'Would it not be the same if you did it, though?' the Magister smirked. 'He does think you evil. He thinks,' Dorian whispered, 'all of us evil.'

'I am still Elvhen,' Lusacan lightly reminded. 'Elvhen like him – you, Lady Patience, are not, nor will you ever be one, in his eyes. Of this, I warned you, once upon a wall…'

'I'm beyond caring,' Vel murmured; she gathered her knees to her chest, and closed her eyes. 'If Abelas wants to brave Starkheaven on his own, and fears us more than he does Andruil, let him do as he bloody well wishes. I've had enough of him to last me a lifetime.'

'You don't mean that, Amata,' Dorian softly scolded, sitting back down.

'She does, at the moment,' the Watcher said, 'but it shall pass.' He took a sip of his wine, then thoughtfully looked to the ornate ceiling. 'I am sorry for you both,' he gently spoke, 'and it is long since I have felt such odd affection…'

'I find it odd, as well,' Dorian said, sounding almost resentful. 'You yourself said that the fate of mortals is of no consequence to you. In the end…'

Lusacan laughed, and looked to them both with an unreadable expression. 'The fate of mortals, yes, but…'

He cut himself off, once more before speaking anything of true consequence.

'No matter how you try, this time, there will be war, perhaps indeed the war to end all wars. Rebirth will follow, then. Such is history, such is time.'

'Can the Lady Mystery not spare us the suspense, and just tell us the outcome?' Veldrin sighed. 'Because if we're _fated_ to lose, I'd rather surrender now, and spare all others; Solas has tortured them enough already.'

'Firstly,' Lusacan replied, eyeing her sternly, but with no anger, ' _we_ cannot surrender. You, Lady Patience think as mortals do, still.'

'That's perhaps because I am one,' the Elvhen woman frowned. 'I am sorry, Lord Watcher,' she followed, uncoiling and darting to her feet. 'I'm dead inside, and have no fear of dying – if you want to turn me into an icicle, and dispatch me to Andruil in a suitable container, do it. Maybe it'll improve her mood,' she spat.

'I've no such thoughts, little sister,' the Old God answered, looking confused.

'Then can you bring yourself to help us with more than riddles?' Veldrin angrily rasped. 'For all our legends, and for however bad I've been at reading character in the past, you seem a good man. Sorry, God.' She mumbled. 'If war is coming our way, then let us make it swift – kill her, and…'

'Ah, child in time,' Lusacan said, smiling, 'I have explained what immortality consists of, and you yourself have seen proof of it, but you still cannot understand. It is no fault of yours, however, thus you stir not my anger…'

'While you're not hearing me,' the Magistra snapped back. 'Your anger is not what I am afraid of…'

'I think _I_ understand,' Dorian said, out of the blue – she spun to face him so fast that her skirts all but swept all the cups off the low table they'd been sitting at. ' _In vino veritas_?' the Magister shrugged, with such a sad smile that her fury melted to despair once more. 'Look,' he said, patting the red velvet of the couch to make his wife sit back down, 'remember how at the very beginning of this catastrophe you feared that if we do kill Solas, we'll be helping him?'

Vel narrowed her eyes; behind her, Lusacan nodded in approval.

'It is the same with Andruil now, Amata,' Dorian followed, softly shaking his head. 'Let's say she's weak enough for the Lord Watcher and the Augur to kill her, in the very real, strictly physical sense of the term – what will happen? We've talked through the political and strategic implications of it lengthily. What we've not spoken of is that she actually made her way out of Solas' box. We also know she's eager to travel though the Veil again, that's why she wanted Solas and you…'

'If it was just war with the God of the false song, we would have crushed her already – if we do send her back to the beyond, she will just energise herself, little sister,' the Watcher kindly interrupted. 'Sooner rather than later, she will have enough strength to return. And then, she will come for Mystery and I, but she can no more kill us than we can kill her. So, we too will resurge.'

'Oh, Gods.' Veldrin said, no inflexion in her voice.

'Precisely,' Lusacan shrugged. 'This world of short lived creatures you so love will not see just one war, it will see many, one more devastating than the next, until upon the barren and scorched land only we and Andruil shall do battle for all eternities to come. Ironically, the very thing that Solas was trying to prevent, in a different lifetime.'

'Is this the future that the Augur sees?' the human Magister queried.

Lusacan breathed out and did not speak again in a haste. 'No,' he said, just as Dorian had put his arm around Vel's shoulders, in search of comfort. For himself, for her…it did not matter.

The Old God stood, and casually strode to the fireplace to gaze upon the portrait that hung above its mantelpiece. 'No, that is not the future that she sees. You ask me why I simply do not tell you our sister's mind,' he thoughtfully uttered, 'but this is just another of those things…The weave of history, or fate, as Mystery calls it, is frail and strong at the same time, like a spider's web; it can survive many a storm's wind, but not fingers running along its lines, even if such fingers have no intent of breaking it.'

'So, if you tell us what the Lady Mystery sees, we might change the outcome she sees?' Veldrin asked, shaking her head in angry incomprehension. 'Because, I'm sorry to say, Lord Watcher, stumbling around blindly has not gone our way for the past decade or so.'

Lusacan looked over his shoulder, with a little ironic grin. 'It is a matter of differing perspectives, I believe, little sister. If, in truth, things had not gone your way – if the fires of magic had not finally erupted from the false song's oppression, the Child of the Stone and his ally would not have woken the last of the Defilers. Pride would not have tried to use him to awaken his foci, you and him would never have met, and you, my little sister, would not have the power to both extricate the unchanging world from its predicament, and end the cycle of destruction that has been haunting all for millennia uncounted. You do have it, now.'

'You know,' he said, turning to the two stunned mortals, 'it is a pity our races cannot intermix. You two might have had such beautiful offspring.'

* * *

Well, well, hello again! Summer slow-down in posting again, but the writing is progressing rapidly. We have our armies aligned, and we feel happy :D

Thank you for reading and commenting, hope you all have a great and not overly sunny vacation :)

Cheers, Abstract & IvI


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